


First Contact

by Footloose



Series: Loaded March [7]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Military
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-21
Updated: 2011-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:02:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 65,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Footloose/pseuds/Footloose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Directory and The Dragon take charge of Excalibur to train them and shape them into a combat force that few others would dare go against.</p><p>Excalibur is ready for the NWO, but is the NWO ready for them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Contact

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [Primer contacto](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3611976) by [Aisjustrunning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aisjustrunning/pseuds/Aisjustrunning)



> I don't own the characters to Merlin(TV) and am not profiting from this work.
> 
> This is part seven in the Loaded March series, and it has been beta'ed by Tygermine (with my profound thanks!). Any mistakes, however, are solely my own.
> 
> Fair warning: this is a military fic, and there will be military violence.
> 
>  
> 
> Bonus! A LJ has been created to chart the progress of the series and alert to new parts. Feel free to friend Loaded_March if you want to keep track! Apparently I blather on quite a bit about metrics and progress, and there may also be random snippets unrelated to the series and upcoming news about other fics I'm working on.

* * *

 

"Motion sensors along the perimeter. Wide-angle video surveillance in all shared areas, including the dorms and the showers," Gwaine said, snorting. He shot a casual glance over his shoulder but kept his body positioned as it was, his back squared at a specific angle, forcing Arthur to mirror his pose. Where Gwaine's hands were shoved in the pockets of his camos, Arthur's arms were crossed over his chest.

"Redundant video coverage, which means if one camera goes down somewhere, another one will still have part of the feed. Zero blind spots and no chance of getting them either, because Owain says there's a mess of circuits and about seven different feed lines that don't cross. I had Merlin double check, and he's confirmed that this very spot --"

The spot was a few square feet of lawn in the compound's garden, where foliage had been permitted to grow a little wild, thick enough to act as a sound dampener.

"-- and less than a dozen others are guaranteed to be good for some private chats."

Arthur pursed his lips in disapproval. He'd expected that the Directory would set them up under surveillance when they were at the training compound, but he hadn't expected them to take it to this extreme. As far as he'd been able to determine, they were the only guests and were, for the most part, left to their own devices. There were other people on campus as well, most of them middle-aged men and women returning their greetings with severe, disapproving expressions, and keeping to their own hours and activities, none of which coincided with anything that Excalibur was doing.

At least, not so far.

The team had made contact with a fair few of the Directory staff. It was contact that was limited to the stuffed shirts and laboratory rats standing in front of a classroom blackboard and giving them the low-down on the Directory's going-ons.

A man in his mid-sixties wearing a tweed jacket over pyjama pants and a button-down shirt and tie had introduced himself as Professor Steven Lundham, positioned himself at the head of the room, and took roll call as if this were primary school all over again. He'd spent three hours telling them about magical theory and practice and the variety of ways that magic could possibly be used, speaking in a dry monotone that had them all struggling to stay awake. The only highlight of the class had been watching Merlin nod off, his chin slipping from the cup of his palm, catching himself before his face slammed onto the table.

A forty-something woman with stringy blond hair had given low-level magic demonstrations that included making a lot of elaborate gestures with her hands, scrunching her face in something resembling constipation, and speaking in a grunting, guttural language that had Geraint muttering about demons and **The Exorcist**.

A man who _might_ have been a hard-arse boot camp sergeant in a previous incarnation had given them a run-down on mundane tactics versus magic, sitting them through grainy, shaky videos of past encounters, oral scenarios and preferred outcomes. Instead of engaging them in discussions for the best approaches to any given situation, he _told_ them that these were the only way to succeed. These were approaches that the Directory followed as set-in-stone standard operating procedures that they followed come Hell or high water using the argument that _it's what we've always done_ and _it worked before, and it'll work now_.

Arthur wasn't so sure. He wanted to get his hands on their historical reports, if for no other reason than compute statistics of techniques and evaluate their overall success. He was certain that their tactics had worked well in the beginning, but that their mindset was in a static rut of _if it worked once, it'll keep working_ , where the enemy had adapted over the years and the Directory's personnel maintained the rule book, tweaking each section with a new revision number to incorporate whatever new technology happened to have worked the very first time.

He had been able to tell from the look on Leon's face when he'd glanced Arthur's way during one of those videos that his second was thinking much the same thing.

At first impression, the Directory was an archaic little rubric of old school, stuck-in-the-mud paper pushers who were top-heavy with an invisible board of chairpersons who might have been field-active agents at one time. Now, though, the Directory was manned with a new generation of desk administrators and human resource geniuses who padded the walls of their cubicles in political correctness and encouraging slogans with graphic-designed cute kittens. None of them _knew_ the battlefield. None of them studied current field tactics. They might have undercover agents to rival MI-5's best, an information network to make other information networks shudder with envy, and pockets deep enough to fund the operation of a small country for a hundred years, but they had shite when it came to soldiers.

And now, there was this. _This_ ridiculous Big Brother setup. Who was the Directory really watching over?

The compound was more of a prison than a training grounds. They were constantly under surveillance -- if it wasn't a pair of human eyes watching their every movement, it was a pair of human eyes watching their every move from the other side of the electric eyes.

"All right," Arthur said quietly. "Let's not make a habit of meeting like this."

"What, afraid Merlin might catch on to us?" Gwaine said, raising a leering brow. "That wouldn't be good, would it, him finding out that you're having it on with me this early in your relationship? Never mind that you're having it on with your ex, yeah? Imagine how that'll make Merlin feel."

"Enough, Gwaine," Arthur started, feeling a pain pinch in the middle of his forehead. He didn't need any of Gwaine's games, not now.

"No, mate. I'm going to keep on like this until we get confirmation. Might even drape myself all over you in the caf, wander over to your room in nothing else but a towel after the shower, spread myself invitingly. I've even volunteered to take on the perilous task of snogging you in public, all for the cause, of course. Let's find out if our Merlin gets jealous, yeah? Unless you'd rather not, in which case, all you have to do is come out and say it. You two, you're an item, yeah?"

Arthur's jaw clenched so tight, he swore he felt a tooth crack. He tried to remember if part of the agreement with the Directory included dental insurance. "If we keep meeting in these private slots, we run the risk that they'll catch on to us and install bugs."

"Not necessarily," Gwaine said, tilting his head. He glanced sideways, probably at some sound audible on the subsonic level that only _dogs_ could hear, Arthur thought uncharitably. "Our Merlin reckons that they cheaped out on the sound system in the outlying areas, which is why all the dead zones are out by the fence. He figures that high-traffic areas probably have the best pickup, but that if any of us went for a leisurely stroll away from the main buildings, the pickup would be poor if we keep moving."

"When will he be certain?" Arthur regretted the necessity of having to speak with Gwaine on this. He'd really rather hear it from Merlin himself, but the team had caught onto the mikes and the cameras almost from the moment they stepped onto the campus, and by silent agreement prompted by the code word "Down Under". It was a code word they all understood (after Merlin had been clued in) that reminded them of the time they were on a quick mission in Australia to extricate someone important from the very compromising position of engaging in certain wanton sexual acts in a club that had video and audio _everywhere_ , even under the sheet. At the time, the team had resorted to a communication series that involved passing everything on to one person who would have all the intel, and that was the same tactic they were using at the moment.

In this case, the pack rat was Gwaine, who was the most unreliable wanker when it came to passing on the information that Arthur needed.

"He's going to need a few days, he says, to be a hundred percent. Said something about it being a bit of a complication because he can't check without being on film while he does it, but not to worry, because he's got a few ideas."

Arthur wondered if those "few ideas" had anything to do with magic, and felt his guts knot in concern. He told himself that Merlin wasn't an idiot, however much Arthur told him that he was. Surely, Merlin wouldn't do anything risky -- but then again, Arthur had _no_ idea what Merlin would do, never mind what he _could_ do. Once again, he wished it were _Merlin_ that he was speaking to right now, not Gwaine, so that he could warn Merlin against doing something stupid.

"Tell him _no risks_ ," Arthur said. "There's no point in his getting caught, not here."

He didn't elaborate what, exactly, Merlin might get caught doing, and fortunately, Gwaine didn't pick up on it.

They still hadn't told the team about Merlin's magic, and as long as they were on the compound under the Directory's surveillance, there was no safe time or place to share that important piece of information. They would have to wait until they were in the clear, until they were in a location that they were certain that the Directory wouldn't overhear, so that they could sit down and take in the news. And, more pressingly, come up with ways to protect Merlin.

"Oh, I'll tell him, all right," Gwaine said. "Just a matter of when and where. Maybe in the showers with the water streaming at full blast -- have to give the Directory credit for not skimping on the water pressure -- and him all slick and soapy. I could give him a hand, maybe reach over to wash his back, maybe get real close, so close I could give him a rub, maybe reach between those biteable buttocks of his to loosen him up and slip inside to give a bit of a fuck show for the cameras --"

"Gwaine!" Arthur hissed warningly, the muscles in his arms tensing, torn between wanting to land a blow on Gwaine's jaw and wanting to keep their conversation from attracting attention -- from the eyes on the other side of the screen or from the Directory personnel watching them from afar. "Stop, goddamn it. Will you stop?"

"No," Gwaine said, and he wasn't smiling now, his expression stern and serious in a way that he was rarely stern and serious. "You bloody well kissed him, Arthur. It weren't him who started it, it were you. The man's been aching for you for months, then you go give him the biggest tease by soundly snogging him then pushing him off to keep him at arm's reach."

Arthur's eyes narrowed, and he started to speak, but Gwaine kept talking.

"They've got us bunked up in twos in _private_ rooms, Arthur. What the fuck were you thinking, pairing him with Bohrs on the other bloody end of the dorm? You could've had him for yourself, yeah? If it's the cameras that put you off, then for fuck's sake, all you had to do was drape a sock over it. If it's the sound -- I _know_ you can be quiet --" Gwaine stopped himself abruptly, and amended, "Though, to be fair, I don't know if _Merlin_ can be quiet, but I'm sure there are ways of shutting him up. You just have to be a little creative --"

"Gwaine," Arthur bit out, the name a strangled hiss from his lips, because his jaw was clenched shut, so tight that he could barely make a tangible sound.

There was something else that Arthur hadn't told the team yet. They'd gone through most of the conditions to see what amendments Bayard had insisted on, the additions that Kilgarrah had put down, even some of the stipulations that Arthur had stuck in. There were two very important requests that he'd put in; one for the team's benefit, the other for purely selfish reasons, and he was keeping both to himself, at least for now.

He didn't have to wonder why he wasn't telling anyone. It was obvious.. If Merlin knew, he might be inclined to doing _things_ that would make Arthur's resistance crumble completely, and it would be Arthur and Merlin putting on a shower scene for the cameras, not Merlin and Gwaine. The thought made his cock twitch, and he swallowed a groan, turning his mind to something harmless and ineffectual, like that battle-axe of a sorceress waving her hands in the air in their morning "class". While naked. His horniness rating dropped from a high of a thousand to a flatline zero in ten nanoseconds.

It did not help that the team was running on only the few hours of sleep that they'd managed to grab on the plane. The showers had helped wake them up, and strong coffee (decent coffee) kept them going despite Professor Lundham's hypnotic dry monotone, but everyone was deteriorating into giggles and hysterics. And wanton horniness.

He kept thinking of Merlin naked. It was awful, because he couldn't concentrate on the lectures. It was also, unfortunately, quite, quite nice.

"-- don't thank us," Gwaine was saying. "Leon's swapped his gear with Merlin's. He'll bunk with Bohrs, and Merlin's all yours."

"What?"

Gwaine's eyes widened with mock alarm. "Do keep it down, Arthur. We don't want the Directory on to us, do we?"

Arthur took a deep breath, uncrossed his arms long enough to pinch the bridge of his nose, and exhaled slowly in a futile attempt to still his suddenly-racing heart, because if he'd heard right, and he couldn't _possibly_ have, Gwaine was telling him that the team had effectively rearranged the bunk assignments so that Arthur would be rooming with Merlin.

Were they insane?! What were they trying to do to Arthur?

"Absolutely not," Arthur snapped, lowering his arms, doing his best to modulate his voice so that he didn't sound absolutely, completely crackers. "This isn't kindergarten, and we're not playing musical beds here --"

"Would that we were, because that would be _fun_ ," Gwaine said.

Arthur stumbled, biting his lower lip, and heaved another deep breath again. "I set the dorm assignments. You don't get to change things around just because you --"

"Oh, no, no, no," Gwaine laughed. "You're not the only one who's gotten a big long look at the agreement. I've read it, too. Had to make sure you weren't pulling my leg that they wouldn't be covering my bar tab, now, didn't I? Stroke of luck that I kept reading and found out that as of today, the army rules and regulations that might keep us from doing our jobs _no longer apply_ and we get leeway about five hundred klicks wide, a blind eye aside and no charges on top of that. Blanket permissions, Arthur. Wonderful thing, too. Funny thing about that, I don't remember us having a discussion about it when we were coming up with our list, yeah?"

"Gwaine," Arthur said warningly, even a little desperate, but Gwaine forged on.

"Then what about that other little stipulation --"

"Gwaine," Arthur said, but this time his voice was a growl.

" -- mind you, I'm benefiting from it too, and, by the way, I'm bunking with Perce now --"

"You're what?"

"-- and I was wondering why in the heck would the Directory even agree to those extras that I'm pretty sure _you_ put in, not Major Kilgarrah, because, really, does that smokestack even care about the bloody rules in the first place --"

"Perce? You're bunking with Perce? Really?" Arthur's voice faltered, a little weak, in a feeble attempt to derail the direction of Gwaine's conversation, but he had to try anyway, even though he knew that once Gwaine was on to something, he was something of a runaway train.

"-- then I realized that you're thinking that Mister Smith and his lot are going to have you and Merlin reprise your roles, the bad-ass arms dealer with daddy issues and his gorgeous, utterly edible squeeze --"

Arthur closed his eyes and groaned softly.

"-- and you..." Gwaine trailed off, and when Arthur opened his eyes again, wincing a little because it was something of an effort to do, he continued, "You're too... sickeningly honourable and... disgustingly noble, you want to make sure you're clear under the rules to engage in a bit of _fraternization_ while you're undercover. Covering your arse, too, for _after_."

Arthur couldn't help the small, pained sound that escaped his chest.

"You're planning long-term, mate," Gwaine said with a rumbling chuckle. "The great playboy Arthur Pendragon is _settling down_. Not a big surprise, we knew you'd crashed hard for Merlin from the start. I'm bloody well chuffed for you, I am. Forget about Morgana. I'm going to be your best man. But first, you've got to admit that you're in a _thing_ with Merlin, and you've got to quit all this bollocks about assigning him a bunk in another damned county. Bad enough that you took a seat on the plane that was up front with Leon, but telling Merlin that there was a spot in the back for him -- you arse, didn't you see the _look_ on his face when you said that?"

"I didn't --" Arthur said, his voice squeaking. He reached up and rubbed his face in frustration. He tried again. "Gwaine --"

"I'm waiting. Go on. I want to hear how you're wriggling yourself out of this one."

Arthur glared at Gwaine. Every time he tried to loosen the muscle in his jaw, his teeth ground together instead. Gwaine was his oldest and closest friend after Leon, and he loved the man dearly, but there were moments, like this one, where Arthur could only think about how wonderful it would feel to wrap his hands around Gwaine's throat and strangle him. Gwaine knew him too well -- every member of the team knew Arthur well, but Gwaine had gotten far under his skin at one point of their lives, and pretended that he knew things about Arthur that Arthur didn't know about himself when it came to close relationships.

The sad part was, Gwaine was almost always right.

"You're scared of it, aren't you?" Gwaine asked, his voice somewhere between a condescending laugh and coming straight out and calling him a _coward_.

Arthur swallowed. He breathed in and out slowly, feeling like an angry cartoon bull with clouds of steam coming out of his nose, and when he felt almost as if he were calm -- at least, _calmer_ , he admitted, "Wouldn't you be?"

The half-expected snort of derision, the typical Gwaine repartee, the laughter and the grins -- Arthur was waiting for anything with the faintest hint of mockery, but Gwaine surprised him. His head ducked down, and he stared at the ground, tilting his head off to the side, even shuffling his feet over the leaf litter in what could only be described as a thoughtful expression.

"Yeah," Gwaine said, his voice soft and low, his head bobbing up and down in a slow, agreeable nod. "Yeah. If it were someone who had me in knots, who could see clean through me, who makes me feel like I'm worth more than anyone else, that I couldn't see myself ever being without... Yeah, I'd be well down the road to terrified with a side stop at the sheer terror motel.

"But you know something, Arthur? You can't hide behind your stupid shield anymore because you already threw it aside. You let Merlin in. And you're hurting him as much as you're hurting yourself when you push him away." Gwaine shrugged his shoulders. "Never mind the rest of us. It were entertaining at first, but it's really fucking boring now. Merlin's heart isn't a rubber band, and yours isn't either, and the sooner you quit being a wanker, the happier we'll all be."

Neither of them said anything, and the seconds trickled by with the slow, erratic cadence of a heartbeat that was stuck between yearning for admission and acceptance, and with desperately hiding itself behind a suit of armour because he wasn't sure what sort of battlefield he was going to be wandering through.

Arthur closed his eyes and reflected on the irony of taking advice on his love life from _Gwaine_ , and when he opened them again, it was to see Gwaine, eyebrows raised, his mouth set in the knowing smirk of a man who could wait forever for the only answer there ever was for his question, and the slightest impatient pinch of his brow that hinted that he'd waited long enough.

"Well? Give over."

Arthur exhaled a soft sigh. "All right. Here it is. I want you to talk to Owain, tell him to build some of his mini-EMPs -- maximum fifty to a hundred metres for localized effects. If he can, I want him to do one big enough to get the whole campus."

Gwaine rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed. His hands came out of his pockets and he crossed his arms. "Expecting trouble?"

"It's the Directory. This is their compound. They've got the CIA pissed with them, they've got Trickler hidden away somewhere, and only God knows how many people have them on their shite list. The place looks like it's been around for a while, they've put in some dosh updating their electronics, and the staff is about as settled in as a herd of old mules. What do you want to bet that this place is under external surveillance? That someone's seen them bring in _sixteen_ blokes into the facility? What sort of alarm bells do you think that's rung? Of course I'm expecting trouble. Wouldn't you?"

"Fair point."

"Talk to Merlin. Ask if he can build sound dampeners. I'm damned if I'll be recorded in the privacy of my own room," Arthur said.

"You mean yours and Merlin's room," Gwaine said, smirking.

"We all need to be able to talk without them overhearing," Arthur said, ignoring Gwaine's remark. "You might need Kay for this, but I want you two to find one of the unused rooms on base and completely disable the electronics. Use one of Owain's EMPs if you need to, but for fuck's sake, be discreet this time. I don't want another Belgium."

"The obstacle course's relatively clear of eyes and ears," Gwaine suggested. "So's the outfield."

Not one of them had failed to notice the open field on the outside of the chain link enclosure around the compound. It was easily two footie fields wide and just as long. There were white lines at either end, a circle in the middle in an X-marks-the-spot sort of design. Where the grass wasn't growing out lush and green, yearning for a manicure by lawnmower, the ground was scorched black and brown with burn marks far too reminiscent of missile flashes and grenades.

They were under no illusions of the cause of those burns -- some of which looked so fresh that they could almost imagine the crisp scent of grass and the sulphur brimstone flame as their transport drove them past. Arthur and Merlin had shared a loaded look -- Merlin, who had sat at the end of the bus without waiting for Arthur to tell him where to sit, as if the once on the plane had been enough. His Merlin, who had stared out the windows of the drab olive-green bus with a pallor growing increasingly pale and sickly, as if he might throw up at any moment.

And that look that they'd shared told Arthur everything that he'd wanted to know about that warped footie field -- that it was a sorcerer's training ground.

"That's because they don't need microphones to hear us screaming," Arthur said flatly. "You're smart enough to read the whole agreement, but you didn't pick up on what's waiting for us after the last round at the tactics lesson?"

"Oi, we've all picked up on it," Gwaine said. "They'll be pitting us against them, following those old battle plans. Won't be no trouble for us, except we'll have to do without the twinkling fingers and sparkles."

"We're best off toeing the line for now, working out what _works_ for ourselves -- without them listening in, yeah?" Arthur's watch beeped; he glanced at the time and nodded bracingly. "Time for another round in tactics."

Gwaine stepped in front of him before he could move away. "Not so fast. About Merlin?"

"What about Merlin?"

"For fuck's sake, Arthur," Gwaine said, and this time, it was his turn to rub his forehead in frustration. "You and Merlin?"

Arthur took Gwaine's arm and turned him around, setting him marching. "I'm not confirming anything until... Look, let me talk to Merlin."

"Just make it quick, mate," Gwaine said, for once, sounding agreeable.

 

ooOOoo

 

"We'll reconvene tomorrow morning at ten o'clock," said Professor Dearborne... Dearhurst... Downsburne... Dumbledore...

 _Something that starts with a D, anyway,_ Merlin thought. He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, screwed his knuckles into his eyes, and tried to wedge his eyelids open more than the sleepy few millimetres than they were now. He badly wanted to stretch, but he knew if he did, he would curl up into himself and fall asleep.

He'd run out of coffee a long time ago -- not that Professor Dickwad even _allowed_ them to have coffee in the classroom in the first place, claiming a strong, violent allergy to the smell of fresh-brewed. After that rather pompous declaration of fragile sensibilities, Merlin studied him intently, trying to divine signs of alien life, because _no one in their right mind_ could possibly be allergic to coffee. Coffee was the staple of life. It fuelled the brain, soothed nerves, and was a balm that cured all ills.

And apparently, it was also anathema to aliens. He would have to remember that if there was ever an alien invasion.

"Is that 1000 or 2200 hours?" Geraint asked. Geraint, like the rest of them, had face-planted sometime before 2300 from the long string of monotone speakers who had been trotted at the front of the room, and his internal censor had gone to sleep a long time ago. He'd proceeded to spend the rest of the lecture -- a slideshow of mystical symbols, their significance through history, and their impact on magic -- interrupting the lecturer and providing live sportscaster commentary.

_"This oblong-shaped, bulbuous-headed design is often used in rites and rituals assigning or requiring a direction, such as for scrying a location, or to change someone's path or goal," Professor Dipstick said._

_"I don't know, it kind of looks like a penis to me," Geraint said groggily._

_"A penis?" Professor Disrespected asked, turning around to study the projected image on the screen._

_"Yeah, mate. You're probably not familiar with those, but. Penis. Yeah."_

The Professor lost the class after that, but not for want of trying; Arthur hadn't bothered to pull Geraint in check, because his head was down and he'd been laughing in a very not-Captain sort of way.

The memory made Merlin smile. It wasn't often that he saw Arthur so physically and mentally exhausted that he deteriorated into something of a thirteen year old who giggled at every word or phrase that could be an euphemism for "penis". He wasn't the only one, either -- Leon had broken out in chuckles when the professor tapped his big long pointer stick at a photograph of a sculpture that was obviously a fertility goddess, oblivious to _where_ he was tapping.

The most surprising thing of the whole show was the silence coming from Gwaine's corner, though it wasn't that surprising when it turned out that he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open.

It was a sniper trick that Merlin wished he knew, because he could see how it would be useful now, considering that they would have to endure many more of these Introduction to Magic classes. It was basic, boring stuff that Merlin had either learned about when he was five, had figured out on his own when he was thirteen, or had read about in one of Gaius' many books on the subject. Compared to Professor Delirious -- who had to check his notes more than once to confirm he wasn't giving them a line of bollocks, which he was about twenty percent of the time -- Merlin was something of an expert in the field of magical symbols.

"That's ten o'clock. In the morning, for those of us who can't tell time properly," Professor Dimwitted said. "Don't forget to pick up your schedules and assignments for tomorrow. Review the information packets. They're at the back of the room."

"You mean the front of the room," Geraint said, still punchy with exhaustion.

"Sorry?"

Geraint twisted his body toward the door and pointed. "Front of the room."

He pointed to the old-style blackboard spread behind Professor Dumbbell. "Back of the room."

"Right," Perceval said blearily, sliding out of his desk chair -- or rather, getting up with the desk chair still trapped around his waist, and he pulled it from his body with an aggravated sigh and a wood-creak that probably meant it wasn't safe to sit on ever again.

Kay put a hand on Geraint's shoulder, turned him around, and walked him out before he could trigger yet another argument with Professor Disgruntled that would mean the team staying for another round of impromptu lecturing, and firmly marched him to the _front_ of the room where they picked up the schedules.

One by one, the team glanced at the sheets and groaned.

By the time Merlin reached the table, there was nothing left except for an oversized manila envelope and a stapled schedule with his name written on it in thick black marker. He tore the schedule off, tucked the envelope under his arm -- it took some doing, because the package was unyielding and weighted something like thirty pounds -- and got out of the room as quickly as possible. Professor Dubious looked like he could keep talking.

"Oh, Christ," Merlin muttered under his breath. The first "class" -- something to do with more battle tactics against the supernatural, focusing on bestial and shapechanger supernatural species -- was at 0700, which meant Arthur was going to put them through their usual run and physical training routine starting at 0500, and it was already nearly 0100 now.

Rack time was suddenly more important than studying whatever was in the envelope, and everyone else must have thought the same because no one lingered in the corridors, instead heading straight to their dorm rooms, shutting the doors behind them with the very intent gesture of _getting some sleep_. Merlin stumbled into his room, ready to do an about-face onto the cot, but caught himself before he landed on top of --

"Leon?"

"Yeah?"

"Um. Don't you have the wrong room?" he asked. Leon blinked up at him from the stack of papers he was reading, his eyes red from trying to focus, but before Leon gave him an answer, there was a loud clatter of objects landing on the cold linoleum floor.

Bohrs was hopping on one foot, trying to pull off his sock. He bounced away from the desk and the scattered tools, crashing into the far wall before slipping and landing ungracefully on the vacant cot. He rolled off, landed on his feet, held up his arms in a gymnast's dismount. "I'm okay! I'm all right!"

Leon and Merlin exchanged glances.

"Maybe you should lay down before you hurt yourself," Merlin suggested.

"Or me," Leon added, sounding dubious. Bohrs was a large man; not quite as heavy-set or muscular as Perceval, but still enough that if he wanted to, he could encourage an elephant to submit merely by sitting on them.

"Working on it," Bohrs mumbled -- or at least, that was what it sounded like. Merlin had seen the team operate in conditions of serious sleep deprivation -- hell, he'd been in the same state himself a few times -- and still be able to perform above and beyond expectations, but that was during times of intense stress and high-demand situations with the adrenaline keeping them awake. Sitting through a full day of lectures that was a hundred times worse than any university talk he'd ever been in, and the day's work became tantamount to cruel and unusual punishment. Merlin was nearly certain that there was an edict specifically written in the Geneva Convention against this sort of torture.

Merlin and Leon watched as Bohrs nearly suffocated himself with his own shirt and tangled his legs in his belt before giving up the fight and keeping his pants on, collapsing face-down on a cot only marginally better than the cots at the base barracks.

Merlin looked back at Leon. "So. About the room?"

"We traded," Leon offered helpfully.

"We did? When?"

"Oh, earlier today," Leon said, running a hand through his hair and doing his best to suppress a yawn. His not-yawn made Merlin yawn and Leon yawned again, and it became a vicious circle of contagious yawning broken only by Bohrs' soft snoring.

"Was I there when we traded?" Merlin asked, because given his state at the moment, it was entirely possible that he'd agreed to the swap, and had stored that tidbit in a part of his brain that had been eaten by the aliens that didn't drink coffee because it was a poison to their systems.

"I'm pretty sure you weren't," Leon said.

"Um? I wasn't?" Merlin squinted, but that didn't help him hear any better.

"No, we made the decision for you." Leon glanced up at him, his gaze a furtive drift toward his papers in a pretence of studiousness that Merlin wasn't buying, not for one minute.

"What? Um. Who's _we_? What decision?"

Leon heaved a tired sigh that looked and sounded contrived -- and might even have been, if they weren't all a few degrees shy of complete exhaustion. "Merlin, it's really bloody late. Can we have this conversation in the morning?"

"Yeah," Merlin said, still confused. "But if you're here, where am I supposed to sleep?"

A close second question was, _where's my shite?_ but he assumed that if they'd traded rooms, someone would have moved his bags as well.

"My old bunk assignment," Leon supplied helpfully.

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I figured as much. And that was where, exactly?"

"End of the hall, last door on your left." Leon put his stack of papers down and stretched, and Merlin noticed that it wasn't anywhere near as thick as the pile under Merlin's arm. A quick glance sideways and he spotted Bohrs' assignment pack, which was still substantial, but in a legal-sized envelope and in a manageable size.

 _Some of it must be different assignments, then,_ Merlin decided, grimacing. There would be no copying someone else's homework. He wasn't looking forward to cracking open his package.

"Right," he told Leon, nodding slightly. "Goodnight."

"See you in the morning," Leon said, and Merlin swore he saw the slightest smirk on his face before he shut the door.

 _Last door on the left,_ Merlin reached the end of the hallway after several "Goodnights" to whoever still had their doors open, growing increasingly paranoid when he realized that it hadn't been his imagination. It wasn't just Leon; they all had knowing grins as they waved him past.

The last door in the corridor was ajar, and Merlin knocked on it to give whoever was inside some warning, in case they were starkers, before pushing it wide. He stopped in the doorway when he saw Arthur.

Arthur was leaning over the double-desk nestled under the far window, a discarded manila envelope on the edge, his hands gripping both sides of that desk as he studied whatever paperwork was in front of him. His feet were bare, his shirt was off, and he stood there in nothing but his trousers with his arse -- that _gorgeous_ arse -- sticking out. Arthur's broad back was a delicious mass of sculptured muscle, with every dip and swell of where there should be dips and swells, a puckering of the long latissimus dorsi disappearing under the waistband of his trousers.

Merlin wasn't sure how long he stood there, _admiring_ the view and unsure if he had been stunned dumb by the sight, incapacitated for conscious thought, or too tired to think of doing anything that didn't amount to a lecherous stare. It didn't matter, because it was a beautiful sight and one he was going to commit to memory in case he didn't get to see it again anytime soon.

There was a soft, exasperated sigh. "Well, come in already, _Mer_ lin. You're letting all the heat out."

_If you're cold, I can warm you up._

_What you're really trying to say is that you want me to shag you senseless._

_Why don't you take those pants off, and I'll shut the door?_

Merlin shook his head violently before any one of those completely-inappropriate phrases escaped his mouth, took a couple of steps into the room, and shut the door behind him. He kept his hand on the doorknob, wondering if he should bolt, because there had been a reason why Arthur had told him to sit in the back of the plane, why he'd understood from Arthur's glance that he should sit somewhere _else_ on the transport bussing them in, why Arthur had assigned the rooms the way he had, putting Merlin at the far other end of the wing. It was because of that _thing_ that they couldn't do.

On the one hand, Merlin wasn't sure if being apart was a good idea. When he couldn't be close to Arthur, all Merlin could do was stare at him from wherever he happened to be. But now, being in the same room as Arthur, the door shut, it being just the two of them --

_and the video camera and the sound pickup_

\-- it was temptation that not even the devil could resist. Merlin kept himself from glancing around to search for the cameras, but he wasn't so sure that it was going to be that effective a deterrent against Merlin's suddenly very urgent need to wrap himself around Arthur's body. Preferably when they were both naked.

He swallowed hard.

"Did you know about this?" Merlin asked.

Arthur turned around then, robbing Merlin of whatever little brain power he had left. _That chest_. It wasn't as if Merlin hadn't seen Arthur naked before _many, many times_ , but it wasn't often that he saw Arthur in any state of undress while they were this far apart in a private room that had a door and everything ( _and a camera, couldn't forget about the camera_ ), and the sight went straight to the wrong parts of his body.

Merlin averted his eyes before the absolute, unbridled _want_ he was feeling became obvious and dangerous, hoping that a few hours of sleep would do something to restore his self-control -- self-control that was going the way of the flushed loo, and in a hurry, too. He glanced at Arthur and gestured at the thick envelope in his hand before dropping it on the bed.

The bedsprings squeaked faintly. Merlin felt heat coming to his cheeks, wondering how loud those bedsprings would get if --

Merlin wasn't really asking about the envelope contents, about the assignments, about the late-night readings, and from the glint in Arthur's eyes, the way his expression tightened to see him, the press of his lips, he knew it, too.

"No," Arthur said finally, turning away, resuming his earlier pose. The papers rustled, and he flipped a few pages to continue reading. "It's out of my hands."

Merlin twitched, not sure what to think about that. Arthur _still_ didn't want him close. It hadn't been his decision to bring Merlin here. The others -- Leon and Bohrs and all those other snickering, smirking bastards on the team -- it had been their idea, for whatever reason, to put Merlin in the same room as Arthur. Knowing that, realizing that Arthur wanted space between them only made Merlin's chest hurt in a strange, uncomfortable way.

He ignored it. He understood why Arthur wanted them to be apart. On a logical, conscious level, Merlin didn't want either of them to lose their commissions, to be suspended, to face a dishonourable discharge. He couldn't do that to Arthur, who had fought tooth and nail to get to his current position, to get the rank that he well deserved, who would no doubt face the ire and wrath of his father -- _The Colonel_ \-- if Arthur so much as besmirched the family name with a single, embarrassing slip called _Merlin_.

At least, that's what Merlin's running-rampant imagination told him. He wasn't sure what Uther Pendragon would do to Arthur if they were caught engaging in a bit of fraternization and were subsequently brought up on charges, but he didn't think he was far off in his guesses. Disinherited. Disowned. Beheaded.

Merlin rubbed his face and told himself firmly that he wouldn't make Arthur give all this up for _a bit of fraternization_ when, truth be told, Merlin wanted a lot more than that. He swallowed a sigh of frustration, remembering what Arthur had told them back on the base barracks, when he listed the conditions of the agreement. They were in with the Directory for the duration of the longest term that any of them had left -- which was Merlin's eight months.

_Eight months._

That was bloody well forever. How was he going to last eight months without getting to touch Arthur, never mind three weeks in close quarters with him?

Merlin pulled one of his rucksacks onto the bed, digging around until he found his toothbrush and paste. He mumbled something about brushing his teeth, took one of the towels that had been dumped on the bed, and headed for the communal bathroom.

The showers were dry and unused; no one had any energy for a second shower of the day. Merlin remembered the quick in-and-out he'd managed -- that he'd desperately needed -- when they arrived at the compound with fondness, because the water pressure had been just enough to strip the dirt and grime down to his last layer of skin, and the heat had done great things for the crick in his neck and the sore muscles in his back from the flight over to wherever it was that they were.

Merlin made a mental note to double-check Gwaine's guesstimate that they were somewhere in the European boondocks. He'd thought that they were in the Northern end of Germany, but nearly every fixture and piece of equipment was English-standard. That didn't mean much, though; if the Directory had as much of a bottomless pocket as Gwaine hoped they did, they could have imported everything and built the grounds to meticulous, misleading specifications.

He brushed his teeth, washed his face, dried himself off with the towel, and stared at himself in the mirror. His eyelids drooped; there were dark bags under his eyes, and he looked thinner than he had in a long time. His stomach rumbled faintly with hunger, and he _felt_ thinner than he had in a long time.

Arthur was where Merlin had left him, leaning over the desk, but this time, he rubbed his eyes before dropping his hand to turn the page again.

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable sitting down to read that?" Merlin asked, putting his toiletries on a small shelf next to the bed, the one that he was fairly sure Arthur hadn't claimed for himself. Everything in the room was too neat, too well organized already, to be sure.

"If I sit down, I'll fall asleep," Arthur said with the soft sigh of someone who really meant to add, _obviously_ at the beginning or the end of the sentence -- either way, he sounded like a cranky prat.

Merlin answered him with a small grunt and turned away. He toed his boots and nudged them under his bed. He pulled off his shirt, rummaged in his bag, and found a clean pair of boxer briefs and a shirt, doing everything in his power to change quickly and to _not think about how Arthur was standing a few feet away_. He balled up his dirty clothes, shoved them someplace else -- he'd worry about them when he was more conscious -- and unpacked a few things that needed unpacking before glancing at Arthur.

"Do they seriously think we're going to read all this in one night?" He picked up his envelope and hefted it in the air, not sure whether he should open it. "Can't we all just read one part of it, then give each other the highlights on the run tomorrow?"

"That would require that we were all given the same material," Arthur said, his tone hinting that he'd already toyed with the idea. He shot Merlin an over-the-shoulder glance that could qualify as _smouldering_ if it wasn't for the faint trace of slack tiredness in his expression.

"We -- what?" Merlin stared at his envelope with growing dread. "What did you get?"

"Debrief papers on the NWO -- we all have at least that in common. Dossiers on arms dealers to expand on what I'd been given in Algiers. A sitrep on the current missions." Arthur reached over and flipped through a small stacks of folders that all looked to be stamped _EYES ONLY_. "Command files. What's in yours?"

"I'm afraid to find out," Merlin said. He hesitated for a moment, his fingers reaching under the seam before slowly tearing it open. He had a sinking feeling when he glimpsed the contents, and dumped each small stack on his cot.

On top were the NWO debrief papers that Arthur mentioned. Merlin put it aside and flipped through a spiral-bound catalogue of emails -- emails that had been bounced back and forth between whoever was manning Merlin's email account -- the one that Freya and Bryn had set up for Merlin, and there were notations on emails that might even make sense if he weren't already cross-eyed. The third was a thinner, stapled folder with a red rubber stamp that was several security clearances above _EYES ONLY_ , and was so high that it didn't have a name, just the designation EOTS and a number. It was a very high number, up in the thousands, indicating just how many times someone would get shot if they were caught with the folder and didn't happen to have the proper authorization.

Merlin opened the folder and thumbed through the papers; each one made his stomach clench tighter and tighter. The cover page was a short, to-the-point preamble discussing code phrases and signals that were in use by the NWO and their attempts at translations and associated explanations; the following twenty-something double-sided and single-spaced pages were all in Welsh.

The last item in the pile was a book. It was fifteen centimetres wide and twenty-four centimetres tall, no bigger than someone's personal diary, but it was also seven centimetres thick and weighed nearly five pounds all on its own. The cover was smooth leather vellum, the edges worn with age, the front and back embossed with a faint seal that had faded with time, barely visible unless someone held it up to the light.

Merlin did just that, tilting at an angle that would have the edges catch the shadows, bringing the symbol in stark relief.

It was a book of magic.

Merlin nearly dropped the volume in an instinctive fumble to hide it, but a small, giddy voice in the back of his head reminded him, _Arthur knows_ , and he took a deep breath of relief instead, showing Arthur the cover. Arthur's brow rose, and he came to stand behind Merlin, reading over his shoulder.

Merlin tried not to think about the way Arthur's breath felt on the back of his neck or the way he radiated heat.

There was a note affixed to the first page of the book, and he didn't recognize the handwriting.

_The marked spells are those that have been identified as used by the magic-users of the NWO. This may be the compendium from which they draw their primary knowledge of the arcane arts._

The tight knot in Merlin's belly tightened even more. Had they given him this book on purpose? Did they want him to learn the spells? Did they know about Merlin's magic?

"What do they want me to do with this?" Merlin mumbled. "Do they think --? Do they expect me to --"

"Identification purposes, most likely," Arthur said quickly, covering for Merlin's near-slip, because Merlin didn't remember about the video and audio in the room until Arthur interrupted.

"But why me?" Merlin half-turned, then turned away quickly, because he hadn't realized that Arthur had been _that_ close behind him.

"Well, I assume it's because you're most likely to recognize them being done," Arthur said quietly, but loud enough for the benefit of the surveillance in the room, "You're the token Pagan on the team. All I can say is, mate, better you than me."

The title page was simply, **Arcanum** , and there was no insert indicating the publication date, the edition, or even the author, and of course there wouldn't be, because the book was completely handmade, from the pressed linen pages to the stitch bindings to the thin wood plates and the soft leather covering.

"Goddamn it," Merlin muttered, more in frustration at the added workload, and at the fact that he was going to have to do a little bit more than just learn how to recognize the NWO's spellwork and magical battle tactics from the book. He was going to have to learn how to _counter_ them. That was going to be hard to do, too, without anywhere safe enough to practice.

Merlin didn't think that this one book was the only one that they would have him study -- there must be more somewhere.

Arthur put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed in what Merlin could only think was reassurance or encouragement or sympathy, and he resisted the urge to melt into a messy puddle on the floor when he felt Arthur's touch linger, his thumb stroke the back of his neck. It was over too quick for Merlin to savour the sensation; Arthur retreated and moved back to the desk.

Merlin exhaled slightly and looked between the book in his hands, the Welsh code phrases, the email communications, and the debrief papers.

"You ever get the feeling that they're going to have us keep on doing what we did in Algiers?"

Arthur shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his shoulders down, his back bowed, and Merlin couldn't tell what Arthur was thinking from his body language or the careful, neutral absence of emotion in his voice.

"Given these papers?" Arthur said, "I think that's pretty much a guarantee."

 

ooOOoo

 

By the time Arthur had gotten his hands on the historical tactic reports, compiled the data in his laptop, and plotted out an effectiveness diagram relative to the years of operation, making adjustments and forecasts for when tactics were improved upon with newer technology (the initial jump from crossbows to muskets was apparently quite disastrous, decimating a number of Directory agents from the Way Back day, because in those times, reloading muskets was slow. Never mind the low accuracy of the hits) and accounting for increases and decreases in sorcerous activity, it was four days later, and the team had more or less recovered from the initial lack of sleep and complete submersion into Directory dogma.

The attempt at indoctrination failed miserably, because the longer the classes went on, the more the team challenged the lecturers with questions for which their so-called instructors had no answers. More than once, they had left Professor Dumbfounded -- Arthur blamed Merlin for his sudden inability to remember Professor D's real name -- standing in front of the blackboards, chalk in his hand, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air while he scrambled to keep up with the logic of the question and to come up with an answer that wasn't utter bollocks. The boot camp sergeant -- who had the title of Chief Tactical Officer and fancied himself as such -- insisted that changing the approaches would amount to dire and extravagant circumstances resulting in their imminent demise with an outraged,

"No! Absolutely not! You _must_ advance from the front! If that avenue is blocked, or if you have only side routes from which to enter, then you must delay the attack until --"

After the sixth or seventh similar outburst, the team had all shifted to glance meaningfully at Arthur, as if they fully expected him to implement a new training program and turn the standard operating protocol handbook into kindling.

He had been working on it, usually in brief snatches of conversation with Leon, or at the breakfast table and after tea with some of the other members of the team. Those conversations had been relayed to others, and relayed back with additional information, taking advantage of what had been confirmed to be a weakness in the compound's surveillance system: a transient sound pickup that had to be directed by the operator to focus on specific conversations, particularly in large rooms with a lot of ambient noise, or when they were outside and in transit between buildings. Arthur had, after a fashion, spoken to everyone on the team; he didn't need to ask to know that they were keen on trying something new.

Particularly after the last two days.

Excalibur was getting rather tired of getting their arses handed to them by little slips of women (Morgana wouldn't have wasted her time making them cry) and rangy-looking men (honestly, did sorcerers never _bathe_?) who slung spell after spell at them. Not only did the Chief Tactical Officer preen like a bloody rooster when the team followed one of the protocols and _failed_ to overwhelm the Directory sorcerer, he made loud, snide remarks about their abilities and capabilities.

The last straw was when the sergeant stood up on a chair and roared at them from the safe corner of the combat field, "I knew it! You bloody SAS soldiers are _overrated!_ "

Leon and Arthur exchanged glances, both of them breathing hard. They were still shaking from the adrenaline surge from the mad scramble to get out of the line of fire of a large, round, glowing blue ball of a thing that moved at the speed of light -- and left a small crater where they'd been a bare moment before. Leon elbowed Arthur and muttered, "We're not letting that stand, are we?"

There were enough venomous glares from the team, shot in the sergeant's direction, that Arthur knew it was either he took charge now, or the sergeant wouldn’t live to see sunrise.

Up on the observation platform, Major Kilgarrah's familiar cloud of smoke -- he'd only arrived the day before -- was disturbed when he made a slight gesture in their direction. He spread his arms in a large shrug that Arthur could only interpret as, _what are you waiting for?_

Arthur glanced at the field behind them, where the sorcerers were changing position. Sorcerers, he'd learned, Directory or otherwise, had finite amounts of energy that they could use for instantaneous magic, and until they used up this store, the team's only advantage was how long it took the sorcerer to cast a spell. When their personal reserves of power was used up, they needed to rely on whatever they could get from their environment, whether it came in the form of an entreaty from their patron God, Goddess, or spirits, or all of the above. That power could also come from speaking veritable liturgies of spells that both drew magic to them while creating the desired effect. It was in those occasions that the team would have a bit more time -- anywhere from seconds to minutes -- to advance and disable.

The Directory's approach to the current training scenario -- a scenario that involved a team of eight against two sorcerers (something that would have been laughable except for the _sorcerers_ part) -- was to perform a frontal assault, using passive shielding to deflect most of the magic and to ground it away from the enemy, advancing head-on lest the enemy get distracted or choose another tactic. Not only was this SOP completely bollocks on several levels --

Arthur counted them off in his head.

_1\. They were proposing this encounter occur in an urban area where there would be innocent civilians who would be among the few on the planet who consisted of the completely clueless and who weren't armed with cell phones with snap and video and who definitely wouldn't upload the whole thing to the Internet._

_2\. Their SOP might be valid if Excalibur had a sorcerer to take the point, casting the shield in the first place. They did have_ Merlin _, but Arthur was neither willing to reveal him as a sorcerer in front of the Directory when they hadn't spoken to the rest of the team first, and definitely wasn't interested in putting Merlin in the line of fire._

_3\. This was a bloody open field, not an urban centre, so where the fuck was their cover? There should be buildings. Cars. Dumpsters. There was no way that a sorcerer could throw that swirly blue thing at them if there was a goddamn building in the way._

_4\. They were cheating._

Point number four was a particularly sore point for Arthur. He wasn't sure how or why, but he knew the sorcerers were doing _something_. When he had the other team of eight engaging against the two active sorcerers, he was nearly certain that the other two, the ones held in reserve, were doing absurd things like tripping (Geraint had never been _that_ clumsy in his entire life), turning the field slippery and wet (it hadn't rained since they arrived, and the field was _dry_ the day before), and snapping buckles (Leon 's equipment completely fell from his body in the middle of the advance). There had been at least one brief moment in an attack that Arthur was leading that he swore he felt something holding him back, as if someone had hooked a bungee cord to his belt.

They were cheating, and he was sure of it. Proving it was another matter. He wondered if Merlin could confirm, but even then, what could Arthur do or say? _Our sorcerer tells us you're cheating_?

Arthur gave Leon a curt nod. "We're not letting this stand."

He turned to the observation platform and raised a hand, five fingers stretched out. Major Kilgarrah's head bobbed, and he turned to the crowing sergeant, who shut up after a bare few words.

Arthur couldn't hear what Major Kilgarrah was telling him, but he hoped it was along the lines of, _The Directory's standard operating protocols suck donkey balls. Excalibur is about to show you how they do it -- and they'll beat your time. On the first go._

Arthur fully intended to beat the time that was apparently the SOP's record -- a record attained using a full complement of sorcerous Directory combatants and modern technology. Not only did Excalibur not have a sorcerer (Merlin didn't count, not yet. Arthur considered him their secret weapon), but they also didn't have modern technology. They had paintballs.

Paintballs.

 _Of course_ their opponents could afford to be cocky when the most they had to endure was the sting of a paintball, which travelled at a bat-able ninety metres per second. Not only were the sorcerers protecting themselves against the paintballs either using some sort of a shield, or batting the projectiles out of the way, the Directory-regulation field equivalent was equipped with electroshock, which was meant to incapacitate the enemy.

 _Oh, we'll incapacitate them, all right,_ Arthur thought. He gestured at Gwaine and Kay.

"Break out our gear." He'd love to see how the sorcerers handled the significantly-faster velocity of a modern firearm -- up to and exceeding four hundred metres per second.

Granted, they weren't allowed to have live fire, but the distraction of having _real guns_ shooting in their direction should provide some excitement.

The dour, irritated, antagonized looks on both their faces faded in one instant with matching grins -- except where Gwaine looked primed for mischief, Kay was frighteningly ready to bash a few heads. Perceval and Geraint, close enough to hear the order, laughed with glee and went to help.

"Merlin," Arthur gestured him over and walking away from Leon to meet him halfway.

"Yeah?"

Arthur wrapped his arm around Merlin's shoulders, tugging him close. His first few words froze in his throat when he caught Merlin's scent, raw and wild under the harsh soap provided by their "hosts". He cleared his throat. "Start talking. Everything about the spells they're using and how to counter them. Weak spots, spell durations, anything."

Merlin pulled away, glancing between them over his shoulder at the others with something close to concern and worry, but Arthur pulled him back in and walked them both a few steps away. "They're not going to hear us. Gwaine's cleared the field and the watchtower. Unless you think they're using magic to eavesdrop, I'm pretty sure we're clear."

Merlin ducked his head down, and for an instant, Arthur thought that Merlin might have done some magic, but nothing happened. There wasn't even a flash of gold in Merlin's eyes, though he really hadn't been looking for it this time.

"All right. The spell they're using, it's limited in about four or five ways. You noticed how the more they send the projectiles at us, the smaller they get?"

"I noticed. Finite power equals finite ammunition," Arthur said. "They're scraping the bottom of the barrel and their tank's knocking for gas."

"Yeah," Merlin said with a nod. "Well, that's one way. Run them dry. Number two is get them to throw out something big. Even if they've got the reserve magic, it'll shock them for a few seconds and they can't pull anything else. They've been slower to throw them at us in the beginning, after they did the bigger runs."

Arthur nodded. "Go on. Number three?"

"They've got enough juice for one or two good shots. Get them out of the way in the beginning, and the rest of them have a small blast radiuses."

"More manoeuvrability," Arthur said, nodding. He'd noticed that as well. "Number four?"

Merlin scratched the back of his neck, his hand brushing Arthur's arm. "They throw like girls."

The unexpected laugh came out of Arthur's chest in a braying snort, and he ducked his head down, his shoulders shaking, willing his amusement down to a soft snicker. "That they do, Merlin."

Merlin had a point. Their opponents on this round were all male, but the other pair, the women, could give them a run for their money, too. None of them would make any sort of sports team the way they threw, which was like flinging a ball at a basket and missing it by kilometres.

There was a fleeting smile on Merlin's lips, as if he were ridiculously pleased at having made Arthur laugh. Considering how very badly Arthur wanted to kill the sorcerers on the top of the rise, on the other side of the playing field, Arthur considered Merlin's little feat to be something of a miracle.

"And five?"

Merlin tilted his head and gave him a sidelong look that he couldn't mistake for anything but _what do you think, you prat?_

Arthur's smile faded in that instant, and he grimaced. "Right."

"They're not your problem, them two up there," Merlin said, nodding toward the two sorcerers preparing for the next round. The one on the left seemed to have a larger power reservoir than the one on the right, a narrow, scrawny man with droopy eyes, a squashed nose, and a hairline that reached to the top of his head. Merlin wedged his arm against Arthur's waist and nodded toward the partnered women off to the side. "It's them. They're wicked mean, those two."

Arthur's scowl deepened, and he pulled Merlin even tighter against him. "So they're cheating."

Merlin's eyes dipped down the way he did when he was being guilty of something. "Afraid so."

"Can you stop them?" Merlin's head turned toward him, and they were ridiculously close now, their foreheads touching, their cheeks brushing together. There was a rush of heat from Merlin, that delicious scent of _him_ that was somewhere between the thrilling shudder of an arctic wind blowing down the mountains, the crush of the sweet, ripe tang of raspberries, and the electric flush of a clear sky after the rain.

If that was the way Merlin' _smelled_ to Arthur, he was nearly desperate to know what he _tasted_ like. Only _nearly_ , because he wanted Merlin to himself and had no intention of sharing him with an exhibitionistic show.

At least, not yet.

"I could," Merlin said, his voice sounding as hoarse as Arthur felt, because, really, this sharing of quarters and this being this close -- something was going to break, and soon.

 _Cameras. There are cameras everywhere,_ Arthur reminded himself, and his thoughts filled with a vast reservoir of swear words in several different languages, because if there wasn't one obstacle, there was _another_.

"Can you do it without getting caught?"

Merlin looked over the field, scanning the area, chewing the corner of his lip in that endearing way he always did when he was thinking, and wasn't sure he liked it. "I don't know. Maybe. Yeah. I might need a distraction, though. Some cover. Something big."

"I'll get you your cover," Arthur said. "Early on. Will that do? Can you do something that will stun them enough that they'll be hands-off until we can get up the last rise to finish them off?"

Merlin nodded, and the uncertainty tugged into a small smile that worried Arthur more than the mischief Gwaine might get himself into. "Yeah. Can do."

Arthur clamped his hand tight on Merlin's shoulder, let him go, and broke away abruptly, reluctantly, and it felt as if he'd just torn off all the skin on from his side. It stung.

He went to the others, waving everyone together, and waited until Merlin joined them, too. "All right. Here's the plan.

"Forget the scenario that Sergeant Jenks gave us. If it doesn't look like a city street, then it isn't a bloody city street. It is what it is: an open field with the enemy with both the ground and home team advantage. The Directory's lovely frontal assault might work for them because they've got cannon fodder to spare, and good on them. We'll do this our way.

"Now those sorcerers," Arthur said, tilting his head to the two men waiting for Excalibur's next attempt, "They've been doing the by-the-book by rote, and odds are, they've even been against other sorcerers. I'm betting they've never been on the receiving end of a gun when that gun's in the hands of those who know how to use it, yeah?"

He looked over the team, saw the slow, eager smirks of _kicking arse and taking names_ growing across their faces and was only sorry that his plan didn't include a full team. But he had a point to make.

"They want us to beat their time? Fine, we'll beat it. We'll do it one better. They think an eight-man can take down two sorcerers? We'll do it with six.

"Like that insertion outside Qatar. You're following, yeah?" Arthur glanced around, making eye contact with every member of his team, Merlin included. The Qatar mission had been a quick, violent insertion with absolutely no ground cover and a four-to-one advantage in the enemy's favour, with orders from on-high to disable and contain as quickly as possible because of a time-sensitive battle plan.

"We have no cover, so we'll make our own. Owain, give your flash-bangs to Leon." There was no argument. Everyone knew that Leon had the best arm in the team, with the longest range and the most accuracy, even over Gwaine's deadly precision and Perceval's power. "I want smoke and a lot of it. That's first. Leon, soon as the smoke cover's up, toss in a fanfold spread, as close to them up top as possible."

Owain and Leon would take care of the cover, but they needed a continuing distraction, and that meant heavy fire even if it was heavy blank fire. "Perceval. Heaviest gun you have. Get down as low as you can and shoot in short, controlled bursts. No pattern, keep them off guard.

"The three of you -- stay out of their range. Keep shooting, keep the smoke and flash going." They each nodded.

"Kay and Merlin, you'll be with me. We'll start with random shooting, again, no pattern, enough to scatter and startle, but keep moving forward. When we hit the outside of their range, we'll split up. Merlin, flank left --"

Left, where the other sorcerers were, getting Merlin as close to them as possible so that they could be dealt with.

"Kay, you take the right. I'll wade straight in. Zigzag your courses, avoid getting hit. Dump the guns for the last third of the approach, because we're going in like ghosts."

If anything, Kay's menacing smile took a particular hint of obscene delight, and he rubbed his hands together.

"Questions? Ideas?"

"Just get the bastards," Gwaine said.

Arthur and Merlin re-equipped, dumping the useless paintball guns in exchange for the more familiar weight of the semi-automatic rifles modified to shoot blank cartridges, and had the team take the same pattern as before, with Geraint and Galahad acting as decoys to fool not only the sorcerers, but Sergeant Jenks as well, into thinking that they were going to attempt the same battle plan, only with increased firepower. He waved a hand in the air to indicate their readiness, put the butt of his rifle on his shoulder, and waited.

The go siren blared in a two second interval. Five hundred milliseconds in, there was a repeating _schwoof_ of sound as the first of Owain's smoke bombs filled the air. The siren's echoes were dying down when a canister fell, then another, and a third, setting up a solid line of streaming smoke one third of the way down the field, well out of the sorcerer's ranges. Before the orange smoke became too thick, Arthur noted that the sorcerers looked perturbed, but not worried.

They paused for a few seconds to bring down their goggles over their eyes and to wrap the Pendragon red scarves around their noses and mouths before advancing.

Owain paused to fire more smoke bombs, littering the field to ensure a nice, thick cloud cover ahead of them.

There were two downsides to swathing the field in something more akin to a thick London fog. They ran the risk of losing their direction, of getting lost, of doubling back and circling around and ending up right where they started. Arthur had seen it happen before -- not to his team, and only because his team knew what they were doing.

They'd counted their paces across the field in the early attempts to follow the battle plan. Each of them knew how far to go to reach a certain feature in the terrain. They could modify their speed and get there without losing track. And each of them were wearing wrist compasses.

They reached the first third of the field. Perceval had moved further to the right, taking position behind a mound that raised him high enough to get a direct line of sight on the sorcerers, but still afforded him more protection in case the sorcerers lucked out and managed to hit outside their outer limit again. Arthur could hear the repeating pops of semiautomatic fire.

The flash-bangs began as Leon tossed the grenades. The long, black bodies of the perforated containers disappeared in the cloud of smoke. Arthur had no doubt that Leon was throwing carefully -- aiming blind but still miraculously able to come short of landing the grenades near the sorcerers. They weren't there to hurt the Directory's people -- the only intent was to startle and throw them off balance, and the stun grenades were at one-tenth to one-eight of their full strength.

Owain was out of smoke bombs; he had reverted to his semiautomatic weapon, adding an ominous pop-pop-pop to the erratic series of thud-thud-thud of Perceval's larger-calibre ammunition. Arthur, Kay and Merlin left Perceval, Owain and Leon behind and continued their advance.

They were two-thirds of the way into the field when the magic fire started. They were now much further afield than the last time the sorcerers started lobbing the balls of blue flame, and almost at once, the advancing bursts of semiautomatic fire came to an abrupt stop. For a fraction of a second in-between recoil echoes from the distractions coming from Perceval's position, it was deathly silent in the smoky fog.

The balls of blue flame came lobbing in random directions, high in the air at first in an attempt to illuminate through the swirl of orange smoke still streaming from the freshest of the canisters, then lower and more directed in random attempts to _hit_ something. The first few were large, as big as Arthur's head, and he saw them fly past in the distance, the orange smoke curling around the wisps of blue tendrils around a ball that seemed to unwind like yarn as it rolled away. The sorcerers smartened up quickly, hoarding their resources, resorting to smaller series of missiles flung randomly through the smoke.

Kay had abandoned them a long time ago; ducking and rolling into the smoke like a bandit. He would reach the sorcerers first, Arthur knew, and if the wind was in their favour, the platform where the sorcerers were waiting would be swamped with smoke, giving Kay plenty of time to work his own special sort of martial arts magic. Merlin was drifting toward his position, moving slowly, checking and re-checking his direction as if verifying something. It took a moment for Arthur to realize that Merlin hadn't been disoriented by the smoke; he was _searching_ for something --

Every day, Arthur learned something new about magic. How the spells worked, how magic could help and hinder, how combat took place on sometimes an altogether different dimension than that of the real world, with one person at one end of the road, the second at the other end, staring at each other like a pair of gunslingers at high noon, except no one would ever see them draw weapons, and all they'd see, minutes later, maybe hours later, was the victor still standing, swaying as if he'd taken a blow, while the loser collapsed dead.

There were no by-halves where magic was concerned. And if there were no by-halves, without knowing the full extent of what Merlin could do, Arthur couldn't help but feel a deep, abiding worry and a desperate need to know what the team could do to keep him safe.

But that was for later, when they were far from the Directory and someplace quiet and secure without anyone watching and listening.

For now --

Arthur shrugged off another round of invisible questing fingers that couldn't seem to quite latch on to him -- he assumed that the sorcerers needed a clear line of sight to be able to direct their magic against someone else, and with the smoke, he'd removed that advantage, and continued to advance, rolling out of the way of a line of blue fire, no longer in ball shape now, because the sorcerers were either becoming clever, or they were getting desperate. The flame cut through the smoke like a reaper's scythe, turbulence pulling the smoke after it, closing the gaps.

Arthur continued to advance. His steps slipped on the grass before he got traction again. The ground turned into quicksand under his feet, and he struggled to move, to keep going before the earth swallowed him up.

There was a short, tentative burst of machine gun fire somewhere to his left and ahead. A moment later, it started again, loud, the bap-bap-bap of a trigger stuck all the way down, the switch flicked from semi to full auto, and the full gun clip emptied in less than thirty seconds with the sound of a crinkling-click and a jam caused from the higher carbon content of the blank cartridges building up into a sticky gunk in the firing chamber.

 _Merlin?_ Arthur didn't have time to wonder what the hell he was doing, because at that moment, both sorcerers flung the two largest missiles that Arthur had seen thus far in the direction of the jammed rifle.

Arthur's thighs burned from the fight against the quicksand.

_Merlin!_

He didn't shout, he didn't say a word. He had to trust that Merlin knew what he was doing, because Arthur didn't have any other choice. He didn't like it -- they were going to have a _talk_ \--

He saw it all in the corner of his eye. The way the two balls of blue flame abruptly changed speed and direction, accelerating _away_ from the sound, blowing right past, landing somewhere on the other side of the field.

There was a loud shriek and a high-pitched scream. One of the standby sorcerers shouted, "Watch where you're throwing those!"

Arthur grinned. If there was anything that he liked hearing, it was dissent in the enemy ranks.

Abruptly, the quicksand disappeared. He stumbled forward. He saw the last white line indicating the final frontier, the enemy's side, and through the smoke he could hear the sounds of blows landing. A body came rocketing in his direction, and Arthur recognized one of the sorcerers.

He grabbed the man, twisted him around, flattened him to the ground, a knee in between his shoulderblades. It was surprisingly short work to zip-tie his hands together, even less than that to tear the piece of duct tape from where he'd stuck it to his leg for exactly this moment, and to stick it on the sorcerer's mouth.

Another body landed beside the first as Arthur rose to his feet, but it wasn't Kay; it was the other sorcerer, similarly bound and gagged. Kay came out of the smoke like a ninja, smooth and stealthy, a cocky swagger to his walk, and he winked.

"Time!" Arthur shouted, indicating the end of the field exercise.

Almost as if the weather had been waiting for the signal, a moderate breeze blew through the field, lifting up and clearing the orange smoke.

 

ooOOoo

 

Everything changed after the training exercise.

For one, any additional field sessions were cancelled. The dour-faced sergeant, no longer mocking the SAS officers or laughing about his own people's superiority, unceremoniously dumped the three ringed-binders with the Directory's tactical standard operating procedures on Arthur's desk the first morning following the team's success, and walked out in a shoulders-back peacock huff. Major Kilgarrah entered a few minutes later and said, "I suggest you use this time as your study period and create your own book of tactics. For my personal use as the team's handler, of course."

"Of course," Arthur said, his tone even, but everyone knew that they were only hamming it up for the cameras. Excalibur didn't believe in pre-planned tactics, and Kilgarrah was well aware of Arthur's approach on the battlefield.

For another, everyone on the campus treated them with alternating mixes of angry disgust that they'd been shown up, terrified respect that perfectly mundane personnel could overwhelm magic users, and gleeful delight -- usually from the younger Directory agents -- who claimed "I've told them all along that the way we've been doing things -- it's _totally_ outdated!"

And, finally, the boring lectures about magical principles, battlefield tactics, pop psychology and pseudo archaeological theories came to an abrupt end, with the old, wizened lecturers replaced by a completely different generation -- men and women closer to their ages and who radiated competence and knowledge. One man, thin and willowy but with arms and legs like steel bars, if the weight he lifted in the gymnasium was any indication, gave a directed presentation on the New World Order's global structure, working backwards through the generations to put names to faces of major and minor players.

Merlin sat through that presentation, growing increasingly grim-faced when he recognized the people on the screen.

Freya.

Bryn.

Tristan.

A few others who had been school chums. Some people he knew from childhood clubs. Other kids from the neighbourhood.

The NWO had an organizational structure not unlike a pyramid scheme, where the people at the top recruited people to work beneath them, who were in turn encouraged to recruit people more people, and even more, until they had a massive power base at the bottom, all of them reporting up the chain and passing along the profits. The people on the bottom did all the work; the people at the top reaped the benefits. Trying to puzzle out the actual structure -- who was in charge of whom -- was an operational nightmare requiring far more personnel and resources than the Directory and MI-5 _combined_ could afford, and for the present, they were focusing on the recognized leaders of the oldest generations.

The idea was, once the men in charge were taken out, the organization would self-destruct on its own.

Merlin thought to suggest that a mathematical formula computing the relationship between members could establish the structure without human intervention, but he kept his mouth shut. He didn't need _more_ work.

Bryn and Tristan were considered Generation Two -- in that an unknown member of Generation One had recruited them, who had, in turn, been recruited by an elusive Generation Zero. Information on the Generation Ones was so sparse that even those in the know from Generation Two called themselves Generation Ones.

There was no data for the Generation Zeros -- they were ghosts, rumours, phantom blips on the radar.

Freya was a Generation Three, originally working beneath Bryn before being promoted in her own right to controlling her own pyramid of contacts and resources, but she didn't put enough effort into it and largely associated herself with Bryn and Tristan.

The _overview_ \-- and it was only a bare overview, leaving the team feeling as if they'd barely scratched the surface -- lasted several hours, and the apologetic speaker explained that he'd love to go into more detail, but it was simply that they didn't _have_ the detail.

It was all information that they already had been given through earlier debriefs, but it came with a spin that wasn't always visible on paper.

"Simply put, cracking the NWO is virtually impossible," he said, glancing at the front of the room to nod at a newcomer. "But that's not my specialty. Take a five minute break, and Marja will tell you about their recruitment process."

Marja was a woman with wavy red hair the shade of burnished copper and dark, dark eyes that might have been molten metal. She was like a raging fire at the front of the room, pacing from side to side, crossing paths over the projector on more than one occasion. Slight and curvy, her hair loose around her shoulders, she was not only immune to Gwaine's usually irresistible charm, but had a way of quelling all joking and murmured comments with a stern glance.

According to Marja, the recruitment criteria was strict -- new members were either impressionably young, with few familial attachments, a broad circle of friends, and an attitude of self-entitlement that metamorphosed to fall more in line with the NWO's party line, or they were adults of specific cultural descent who were well-vetted and vouched for by other older-generation members of the NWO.

"There is a particular focus on recruiting adults who fall only within that generational sphere -- age, social status, and location. The first and second generations, for example, are exclusively Welsh, while the third is a mixture between Welsh and Irish. The fourth and fifth are exclusively Irish, with some overlap in the sixth between Irish and English."

"How many generations are there?" Leon asked.

"Too many," Marja said, and gestured toward the man who had been speaking before she took over the front of the room. "Pietr has already told you more than I could about the convoluted generational system, but simply put, the younger the generation, the more members there are."

"So, if this all started in the nineteen sixties --"

"More like nineteen fifties, if the math goes --"

"I don't trust your math," Geraint said, shooting a scowl at Galahad before twisting in his chair to look at Merlin. "Well? What do you think? When did this all start?"

Marja rounded on him, less insulted at Geraint's comment and more interested in learning out why her expertise was bypassed. She picked up a sheet from the front desk, skimmed a finger down its length. "You're Merlin Emrys."

It was a statement, not a question, and Merlin leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He shrugged a shoulder. "If you say so."

Marja's eyes narrowed as she took him in, eyes brushing down Merlin with the clinical appraisal of a medical doctor assessing an infested boil, or a butcher measuring the cut of meat that was going to grace the dinner table. The seconds ticked by in silence that grew more uncomfortable by the minute, and although Marja's perfect poker face didn't let anything slip, Merlin knew that this woman knew more about him than she let on.

He didn't like it one bit. He didn't like her.

"Aren't you going to answer your colleague?"

Merlin forced a thin smile to his lips, tilting his head slightly in what he knew was a poor version of Arthur's _Merlin, don't be an idiot_ look, his eyes flicking toward the projector's grainy image of a brunette with spiky short hair, dark skin, and a navy blue hoodie ducking out of a corner shop. Supposedly, she was an eleventh, possibly twelfth, generation NWO member, a student activist studying international law at the university of Belgium. She was a native German, born and bred, but an orphan who had lost her parents young, bounced across foster homes in her native country before scoring a foster family that moved on to England, only to finally pull herself out of the mire by acing her A-levels and gaining scholarships to pay for her education and support. He pegged her at a young twenty-one.

Twelfth generation. Twenty one years old.

The second generation -- the one that included Bryn and Tristan and _Gods, I still can't believe it's her_ Freya -- were all in his age group. It was barely an eight year difference. For the NWO to have reached as far as Germany by the twelfth generation, there had to have been some serious acceleration and a cast of wider fishing nets in the recruitment process. He did the math quickly, making broad assumptions based on the numbers Marja's colleague, Pietr, had flashed at them through the earlier PowerPoint presentation.

Merlin shifted slightly in his seat, leaning forward, elbows on the desk. He turned his body to answer Geraint, glancing at Arthur, who was just past him. Arthur gave him a small nod.

"Generation One was nineteen seventy-two. Generation Zero -- if the math pans out, if I'm hand-waving enough assumptions into the mix, if they took the steps to set things up proper before bringing the next bunch in -- nineteen forty-five. Nineteen forty-nine. Around there."

One of Marja's eyebrows rose sharply, but she otherwise gave nothing away. Merlin was at least satisfied that Gaius' information and his own guesswork was somewhere near correct, but it didn't make him feel any more comfortable around the redhead.

Geraint half-scoffed, half-laughed. "So they're a bunch of old geezers, then?"

"Not necessarily," Pietr said from behind them. "If you think of each generation as a selection process, the very first members of the NWO had a reason to be extremely selective. They wanted the best of the best, and that meant watching people for years, even decades. I wouldn't be surprised if a founding member tapped someone today to bring them into Generation Zero."

"Well, fu--" Geraint caught himself and swallowed. "So they could be anyone."

"Anyone," Marja said with affirmation, but her eyes were hard on Merlin.

"Yeah?" Gwaine said, leaning forward. "So the number Ones are Welsh, then next up are Irish?"

"Yes," Marja said. There was a sharp clip of annoyance to her tone.

"Well, then." Gwaine leaned back in his seat, full of smug self-assurance. "Kiss me, I'm Irish. Where do I sign up?"

There was a bit of tittering around the room, but Merlin didn't miss the dark glare that accompanied Perceval's forced laugh.

"You don't," Marja said. "As I've explained, their recruitment criteria --"

"Actually," Arthur interrupted his voice dangerously low, the way it rumbled deep in the chest when he was calling someone on their bollocks, "You haven't explained much of anything. All these pictures and profiles are well and good, but for a lot of them, I fail to see the connection. Either you've been actively recruited yourself, or happen to be the only person who's even got a glimpse of the admission guidelines to this fancy little club, but that doesn't matter because you're not providing us with anything useful, and you're only up there because you're evaluating Merlin. You're just not that subtle."

Merlin glanced sharply from Marja to Arthur and back again.

He wasn't the only one glancing between Marja and Arthur, and he wasn't the only one who noticed Marja's poker face slipping.

"Now, Pietr was doing a good job explaining the fundamentals of the NWO, and he could've done a little side speech on the recruitment bit that didn't need to be stretched out as long as you've done, and the only reason he handed off to you in the first place is because you wanted to get to the front of the room to see how Merlin reacts when you talked about getting hooked in.

"I'm going to break this to you lot gently. We are actually not idiots," Arthur said, standing up, his gaze drifting from Marja to Pietr and to the four other people who had drifted in when Merlin's attention was elsewhere. They were in their mid-thirties, late thirties, early forties, all spit slick and posh, full of hard expressions and evaluating stares. Merlin suddenly had the impression that these were the key people who were in charge of the Directory's mission against the NWO, that these were the ones pulling the strings and planning out every aspect of Excalibur's next eight months -- whether they liked it or not.

There were a few exchanged glances at the back of the room, but everyone's attention was on Arthur. Of course it would be, Merlin knew, feeling his heart tighten the way it did when he'd found the note Arthur left on his Mum's care package the night before they left the base. Arthur could be in the pitch black, down the hole, covered in muck, and he'd still shine bright, his presence solid and sure, filling the room.

"We're here for a reason, and it's not just to become your personal excursion team for when the going gets tough and you need more bodies to throw at the enemy. You want us to do what you haven't been able to do, and that's to get to the NWO. How about you stop with the games? It's a bit tiresome. Let's get on with the bones of it."

No one answered him, and Arthur seemed perfectly content to stand there, waiting, Marja's glare hostile and heavy, Pietr amused and quietly chuckling to himself, the rest of them exchanging either puzzled glances or satisfied nods. The door opened abruptly, and the person who entered flicked on the lights, earning a collective groan from everyone as their eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness.

"Yes, why don't we get on with it," Mister Smith said, sounding annoyed, but the look he gave Arthur was one of irritation, as if he'd fully expected this to happen, only not so soon. He marched to the front of the room, and although Marja didn't give up centre stage, it was obvious who commanded the podium.

Arthur.

"The intent," Mister Smith said, a curious inflection on the second word that made Merlin think that the Directory wasn't fully on board with whatever plan Smith was about to lay out in front of them, "Is to draw the NWO out of the woodwork. At the present time, we have agents working at the periphery of the NWO's circle, acting as go-betweens. It doesn't matter how cleverly we groom them or how we set up their backstories or even how well they fit the profile..."

At that, Marja turned her attention to Merlin, crossing her arms in disgust. He wondered if she had been one of the agents groomed to fit the cookie-cutter profile, paraded in front of the NWO like a tasty worm on a hook, and none of the fish had bitten. It was the only thing he could come up with to explain her bitter vibe.

"... after years of throwing good money after bad, the closest we've gotten to the generational pyramid is being invited to hear the spiel, sent on errands for the apparent probationary period of one year, after which we either never hear from them again, or are given additional errands.

"If we play this right, one of you has the opportunity to be pulled into the NWO," Smith said, nodding toward Merlin. "The problem is, we don't know how to play it. Everything we've tried in the past has failed until recently. The email communications that are being carried out between Marja and Freya through the address that was set up for Merlin by the NWO is the longest direct contact that we've had with any of them, and it's all the more important that it's maintained considering the generational position of the other party.

"You've been given copies of the emails that have been passed back and forth between Marja and Freya," Smith said, taking a few steps forward until he was facing Merlin directly. The emails were largely one-sided, with _someone_ \-- not Freya, because she was never that verbose -- proselytizing the virtues of the NWO's mandate, and _someone else_ sending along files of codes to crack and not letting on where they were coming from or where they would be going once "Merlin" was done cracking them. Only one or two emails sounded like they had been written by Freya herself -- emails asking how he was, and where he was at the moment.

Apparently "Merlin" had been couch-surfing his way through Europe until he mysteriously disappeared. Marja's responses to the NWO emails had grown shorter and increasinglyl vague in the weeks before the mission in Algiers, and following that, her responses were pared down to barely a full sentence. The "homework" assignments that the NWO sent along were not completed, and someone on the other end was getting pissed that "Merlin" wasn't cracking the codes in a timely fashion like he was supposed to.

"But you haven't received the latest batch of communications," Smith added. He gestured to someone at the front of the room; one person walked out, and another moved to the side, typing something into the computer. The projector screen went blank while the man worked. "They occurred immediately after the Algiers mission."

The first person came back just as the projector warmed up and the lights turned off, walking up the rows to dump a stack of spiral-bound papers in front of Merlin. At the same time, one email appeared on the screen.

 _OMFG! You're couch-surfing_ Arthur Pendragon _??_

Merlin felt a hot flush burning his cheeks, suddenly glad that the lights were turned off and that he was sitting far enough from the projector that the transient glow didn't reveal his embarrassment. He didn't dare look at Arthur to see what his reaction was.

"This one arrived the _night_ of the mission, after you left the club. Either someone there was NWO, or associated with the NWO, because word got out very quickly that Merlin Emrys was Arthur Pendragon's personal encryption specialist and also his _boy toy_."

Merlin could have died right there at the casualness in Smith's tone. He sank back in his chair, wishing the ground would open up under him right now -- he knew a spell for that, too -- and dragged the fresh batch of emails from the desk closer to his chest, quickly flipping through them in an attempt to hide his expression. What he could make out of them in the dim light was only more of the same:

 _You've got to tell me_ everything _!_

 _I mean, I knew you were gay, but_ Arthur Pendragon _! How did you meet him? Are you two close?_

"We're still working out who this person was. Not every outbound communication was captured from the club that night, despite precautions. In any case, it appears that the route through which they discovered the association between Merlin and Arthur will work to our advantage," Smith said.

There were more and more emails like the first few, each growing longer and rambling, with insistent questions and veiled suggestions that maybe, just maybe, the NWO would like to meet Arthur, because they'd _heard_ about him, and _was it really true, that Arthur and his father didn't get along?_

"We've long known that the NWO is engaged in weapons design, manufacturing, trading and sales. That information has been distributed to you prior to Algiers and updated in the current debriefs," Smith continued. "Thus far, whatever associations they've made with arms dealers have been through the newer generations and by way of several intermediaries, all intended to protect their assets. Getting to the NWO through that route has been as spectacular a failure as attempting to join them through the recruitment route, but because of Merlin's connection to Arthur, and by definition, to Pendragon Consulting, it appears that we can advance a meeting between Excalibur and a sufficiently well-placed group of NWO generational members to..."

He trailed off, took a breath, and added reluctantly, "To do what we thus far have failed to do."

 _Where are you, Merlin? Why aren't you answering my emails? Are you all right? It's like you've dropped off the face of the earth,_ Freya wrote in one of the more recent emails. _Do you need help? Is it Arthur? Is he hurting you? I've heard rumours that he's rough on people, er. On his lovers, I mean. We can get you out, you know, if you need us to. Just say the word._

Merlin felt tears stinging his eyes. Despite everything, despite the monster that Freya could become, the monster that she was dating, the whole mess with the NWO -- Freya was still his friend, wasn't she? She sounded genuinely concerned for him.

He blinked the tears away.

Arthur hadn't moved to sit down all throughout Mister Smith's little speech. If anything, he stood up straighter, his chin low, his eyes narrowed in thought, his arms crossed over his chest.

"And Samuel Trickler?"

"Sorry?" Mister Smith turned from Merlin to study Arthur, and there was a moment's pause that was visible in his expression as switching gears.

"The club in Algiers might have been emptying when we left that night, but there were enough people there to have seen Trickler coming after us," Arthur said, his tone dangerous. "There are going to be questions."

"Not necessarily," Mister Smith said, nodding toward someone at the front of the room again. An older man -- mid-to-late forties, with greying slabs of hair at his temples and a face that was a roadmap of wrinkles, wearing an off-the-rack suit that was as rumpled in ways that not even a good dry cleaner could save -- stepped forward.

"After the incident, we staged the scene to show an outright firefight, leaving enough signs that Trickler and his people used magic in their defence, in case his people were looking for that. Between the police report, planted eyewitnesses, and the undercover MI-5, CIA and other government agents who agreed to pass on careful pieces of information, anyone would be able to uncover that Trickler's people did in fact engage in a firefight with your people, and it went disastrously for them."

"Which will add to the perception that you and your people are not to be trifled with," Mister Smith added.

"That should be obvious, yeah?" Gwaine muttered under his breath, but it was still loud enough to be heard throughout the room.

"Trickler's people are dead; there were bodies. There were also rumours distributed that three of his personnel, including himself, were found barely alive by the police and whisked away by ambulance, only to have them transferred to a high-security prison by the authorities -- namely, us -- after they made their reports.

"In addition, there's footage of a bloodied Arthur carrying a badly injured Merlin through the lobby of the hotel, which can only add to the rumours. This footage has been seen by several agents through a handful of arms dealers, so you can rest assured that they are well and fully aware of the attack, of the outcome, and the repercussions for anyone who crosses you."

"Too right," Kay said.

A muscle popped in Arthur's jaw. Finally, he nodded his head once, as if satisfied. "I want to see that footage."

"We'll make it available to you," the man at the front of the room said before stepping back.

Smith regarded the group quietly before asking, "Are there any questions before we proceed to the next stage of your training?"

Merlin held up the stack of papers. "No one's sent them an email reply since Algiers."

"That was intentional," Smith said, shifting from one foot to the other, but it was Marja's sullen sucking-on-a-lemon expression that tipped Merlin off. Every other email that they'd received before Algiers had been from an intermediary -- _not_ Freya. And Freya _knew_ Merlin. There was no way that Marja could answer Freya's questions in the same way that Merlin would, not without tipping her off that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't really _Merlin_ who was answering. "As you can tell from the tone of urgency in the emails you've been given, it appears that the interest in you has elevated from purely a recruitment aspect for your skills as a cryptographer and a cracker to you, specifically, and your relationship with Arthur.

"You'll be given access to a computer so that you can respond, in your own words, to the effect that you're all right, that you've been traveling quite a bit, that Arthur's been keeping you busy, and, most importantly, that Arthur's been watching you like a hawk."

Merlin glanced in Arthur's direction and felt a flutter in his belly to find Arthur doing just that.

"At the very least, it will convey several things of importance -- that Arthur trusts you to do his work for him, that he's keeping you very close indeed, and that he's being very secretive and protective. Those last two are aspects we believe are desirable to the NWO. They won't work with anyone that can't keep their mouths shut.

"As well, you'll inform your contact that you'll be returning to London in Arthur's company." Smith made a show of checking his watch. "In fact, we could do that now, while the others organize the team in groups for additional specialized training."

Merlin flipped through the emails, seeing what no one else seemed to have seen, and that was Freya's growing panic the longer Merlin went without answering. He felt sick to his stomach at anyone putting her through that, because, deep down, Freya did care about people, about _him_ , even if she had been twisted by Bryn and the NWO.

She'd never believe an email.

"Fuck that, give me a phone."

 

ooOOoo

 

In the conversation that followed after everyone else scrambled out of the foxhole before the grenade could go off, Bayard had been adamant that email communication was the only recourse, completely and utterly unwilling to permit Merlin to call his friend to let her know that he was fine. It wasn't until Merlin said, "Look, you said it yourself. She'd know it if someone else answered her email, yeah? Well, she'd also know that something were wrong if I'd let her panic like this and the only thing I did was email her back. That's not enough. She'd know I'd call her to let her know I was all right," that Bayard even began to consider it.

Merlin had smacked the pile of emails on the table, a few of the pages flying loose from the cheap plastic spiral binding. Arthur had flipped through enough of the hard copies while Bayard and Merlin argued back and forth to see that Merlin was correct. He'd received enough emails from Morgana to know what a panicked sister sounded like -- and she sounded a little less shrill than when she was worrying about Leon. This Freya woman definitely came off the page as if she considered Merlin her little brother -- and that she knew him well enough to know how he would react.

A glance at Major Kilgarrah was been all that Arthur needed to get the _I'm giving you an order_ and _Your order stinks_ bickering to come to an end. He put a hand on Merlin's shoulder, and gave him a meaningful look before Merlin took a deep breath and seethed in silence.

"Emrys," Kilgarrah said, a gruff roar in the undertone of his voice silencing Bayard's in mid-heave. "Are you positive that this can be only resolved with a phone call?"

Merlin's sharp _of course I am_ was held in surprising check, and he instead answered, "Yes, sir. A hundred percent positive."

"Can you handle it? You're going to have to feed her a story," The Dragon said, blowing out acrid cigarette smoke.

"Yes, sir," Merlin said again, glancing at Arthur in a _back me up_ plea, but it wasn't necessary to speak up, because Bayard threw up his arms in the air, turned his back to them, and stalked away.

"An email would be easier and faster. We need this done as soon as possible -- I'm sure they're getting suspicious. We need to do it by email, because otherwise, it'll take a few days to arrange the call," Bayard said with a snarl. "We'll have to make certain that it can't get traced back to the compound. That means bringing in an expert to bounce the line and ghost to a different number."

Arthur moved to clamp a hand hard on Bayard's shoulder, half-wondering when he'd gotten so small and bony and deciding it must have happened sometime after Arthur's fifteenth birthday, and turned him toward Merlin, waving his hand in introduction. "Mister Smith, I'd like you to meet an _expert_. Let him handle it."

Bayard shot him a look full of porcupine irritation. He didn't like not being in control any more than Uther Pendragon did, but Arthur had learned a long time ago how to handle his father, and, by extension, Bayard. It amounted to either slapping them on the back of their heads with a hefty dose of reality, or to make them think that the idea was their own. Arthur might be a bit more prone to kid-gloving his father into the right response, but he had no similar compunctions when it came to handling Bayard.

Merlin didn't give Bayard any reason to argue. "Where's the comms room? I'm assuming you have one here, yeah?"

Bayard's thin lips and sharp nod was the only answer they received. He picked up an extension nailed to the wall, dialled a number, and said, "Have Marja meet us in the communications room."

The four of them -- Bayard leading, Major Kilgarrah right behind him, Merlin and Arthur taking up the rear -- went to a different building marked OFF LIMITS, where Bayard slashed a security card, typed in a code, and brought them through a circuitous maze of corridors to a heavily-reinforced door. He entered a second code, swung the door wide, and barked, "Everyone out."

Two Directory staff members popped up over their cubicles like prairie dogs, saw who it was, and hastily grabbed their coats, mumbling something along the lines of _smoke break_ and _need coffee_. Bayard waited until they were gone, the door shut behind them, before magnanimously waving Merlin toward one of the consoles.

"Do what you need to do, but do _not_ make the call until I'm satisfied that your setup is untraceable and you've been scripted," Bayard said.

Merlin nodded, mock-saluting when Bayard's back was turned, gave Arthur an angry shake of his head that could either mean that he wanted to strangle the Directory agent, or expressing his frustration at being treated like an idiot. He sat down in the chair and promptly popped the side panel of the console, exposing a tangle of coloured wires. Arthur could tell that Merlin was upset -- more for his friend than for himself -- from the way Merlin was yanking out every single piece of wire, every board, every chip.

He moved aside, drawing Bayard's eyes away from Merlin. He trusted that Merlin would make the phone call untraceable, but if Bayard kept at him, Merlin would make certain that the entire communications board was useless when he was done.

"He'll be fine," Arthur said. He glanced at Major Kilgarrah, but the Dragon moved to stand against the wall, helping himself to the files that were littering the cubicle desks.

Bayard grunted. "Marja will make sure that he's fine."

"You should've told us about this before, Sol," Arthur said, keeping his voice low, but he didn't miss the way Major Kilgarrah glanced in their direction, or, more importantly, the rolling creak of the chair that Merlin was sitting on, shifting minutely to the side as he turned toward them before returning to work. "Could've averted the crisis before it became one."

"It's not a crisis," Bayard said. "It's a strategy."

Arthur was ready to call bollocks on Bayard. If he put any stock in what Gilli told them in Kandahar, tied up and helpless while trying to free himself enough to use that magic ring in order to escape, the Directory wanted Merlin for themselves. They didn't want Merlin anywhere near the NWO for a reason, and that reason had something to do with Merlin's long-deceased father. At the same time, Arthur could see how both sides needed Merlin for reasons that didn't have anything to do with Balinor Emrys, and it had as much to do with Merlin's cracking and cryptography skills as it did with Merlin's association with Arthur.

He wasn't an idiot, like he'd said in the classroom. None of them were. Pendragon Consulting was at the leading edge of the weapons industry -- research, development, implementation. There were decades worth of prototypes in the archives and plans on the books that were at least twenty years ahead of everyone else. The NWO might be mostly made up of magic users, but Arthur could see one distinct advantage that technology had over magic.

It took a whole lot less energy to pull the trigger of a gun than it did throwing little blue balls at people and hoping that they hit.

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't break eye contact with Bayard, reaching up to scratch his cheek with his thumb, settling his hands on his biceps with a _whatever you say_ shrug. The door to the room beeped faintly, swung open, and in marched Marja, slamming the door behind her with more force than was necessary. Bayard moved to intercept, taking her aside. They exchanged quiet words that grew into something of an argument before Marja shot Merlin another dark look and nodding in sullen agreement. Arthur watched Marja open a file folder -- it looked as if she'd already prepared some notes to cover this exact situation.

Major Kilgarrah seemed nonplussed; Arthur left him alone to plunder and pillage through what was obviously confidential Directory material -- but not so confidential that Bayard seemed concerned by the intrusion. Instead, he went over to stand close to Merlin.

Arthur didn't get very many opportunities to watch Merlin in his natural state -- surrounded by knickknacks, tools, wires, and completely and utterly absorbed in what he was doing. There was a slight crease of concentration in the middle of his forehead, his eyes tracked what he was doing as if he was following a road map that he had in his head, and he chewed the inside of his lip with subconscious determination. Arthur wasn't sure what drew his eye the most -- the little bit of wet along his lips where Merlin stuck out his tongue, or the way those long, graceful fingers worked, stripping and twisting wires together, sure, strong, confident.

He needed to reach for Merlin, to touch him, and at the same time, he wanted to leave Merlin alone to do his work. It was a fragile balance of need and want, and he suppressed it until he saw that Merlin was checking connections now, listening to the console for a dial tone, typing in a few keys on the computer before pulling a new command prompt and loading a program.

A program, Arthur noted, that Merlin was rewriting.

"Merlin," he said softly, leaning in closer. Merlin's eyes flashed at him with that jewel sparkle, all the more startling with those long black eyelashes framing them.

His attention was back to the code a second later, but he answered with a faint nod and a whispered, "Yeah?"

"Play their game," Arthur said, but before Merlin could startle and stand up and direct all that anger that was making him tense and tight at the shoulders, Arthur nudged his knee against Merlin's thigh and left it there. Whatever Merlin had been about to say died in his throat, and Arthur stared a little too long at the way Merlin's Adam's apple bobbled in a thick swallow. He licked his lips, and continued, "Go along with whatever they say. Make them happy. But when you get on the phone, forget about them. Just remember your role. You're _mine_ , Merlin, and you know it. You can't escape. You don't want to. You accept it. But you're still you, Merlin. You know she's worried about you and you hate that she's worrying. Tell her what they want you to tell her, but you tell her the way you'd tell her, all right?"

Merlin didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the monitor, his fingers brushing the keys, settling for only a moment, as if he were thinking about the next few lines that he needed to enter in the programming. He nodded slowly, some of the tension easing from his shoulders, his jaw relaxing from where he'd been clenching his teeth, impatient to get in touch with Freya while at the same time frustrated by the Directory's intervention, the long leash and yoke that had been placed around his throat.

He glanced up at Arthur and nodded again, his leg shifting slightly to press more heavily against Arthur's knee. Merlin glanced over his shoulder toward Bayard and Marja, and Arthur had the impression that they were wrapping up the script they wanted Merlin to read from. "But..."

"Don't worry about them," Arthur said, standing up to block their approach, giving Merlin more time to finish his work. He put a hand on Merlin's shoulder and squeezed, catching a faint nod of approval from Kilgarrah.

"Give him a few more minutes," Arthur said, stepping in front of Marja, who seemed keen to grab Merlin, whirl him around, and start prompting him on the script.

"I thought he was an expert," Marja sneered.

"Do it yourself if you think you can do better." Arthur glanced at Bayard, who glanced at Marja, tilting his head in a _leave him alone_ gesture. She huffed faintly and went to sit at one of the empty cubicles, dropping down her papers, picking up and dropping an abandoned pen she found there in a constant, irritating, clacking nervous tic meant more to distract everyone else than to soothe her own frayed nerves. Bayard shook his head grimly, half to himself, half to Arthur, and rubbed his face in his hands.

"Don't mind her," Bayard told Arthur, but it sounded more as if he were saying the words to reassure himself. "She's been trying to crack their ranks for years."

"And we come right along and waltz right in," Arthur finished for him, nodding in understanding. He expected that the Directory would have a few bent noses at having an external team join them, people who hadn't been fighting the good fight right next to them since the beginning. "It's a fair cop. But it's also your problem, Sol. Get your people in line. We're on the same side here. If they stand in the way, that's only going to make things worse for everyone."

"You think I don't know that?"

"Done," Merlin said, rolling his chair away from the console, giving Marja a dubious look when she rose from her seat with the thunderous movement of a predator ready to pounce. Bayard picked up the phone Merlin pointed at, and dialled a number.

"I want a trace on this line. Time how long it takes to bounce it back," Bayard said, pushing a button to mute the receiver before nodding to Marja to go ahead.

Arthur listened with half an ear as Marja briefed Merlin on what to tell Freya, her tone nothing but professional, talking Merlin through the key points that needed to be mentioned -- that he was _fine_ , that unforeseen circumstances prevented him from checking his email for a long time, that they were traveling all over, that Arthur was being chokingly and somewhat murderously protective, and that they were coming back to London soon.

She had Merlin parroting a few key phrases, worded in a specific, psychologically-impacting way that would manipulate Freya's emotions, which soured Merlin's expression, but he repeated them in something of a low, resigned monotone that nearly made Arthur chuckle out loud.

"We're going to need to talk about the command team," Bayard said, gesturing that Arthur follow him over to where Kilgarrah was flipping through a call log. "Obviously Marja will be involved, and Pietr as well. We'll have a representative from MI-5 present. But we will need support staff as well. Based on his previous experience with you --"

"Absolutely not," Arthur said, all his amusement over Merlin's current plight evaporating.

"He's had experience with your team, he's familiar with you, he knows Merlin --"

"Hounding him every bloody day and draining a resource that _we_ relied on -- that's hardly putting him in our good graces, now, does it?"

"He was doing his _job_ ," Bayard said, raising a slight brow. "He was gathering information, making certain that you wouldn't come to harm --"

"Come off it, Sol. Gilli Merriam was a _spy_ , and not a particularly good one --"

"Gentlemen," Major Kilgarrah said, his voice a low rumble that silenced Bayard, and set Arthur's teeth on edge until he heard what else The Dragon had to say. "While I admire your loyalty to your people, Solomon, and I will be making inquiries to learn for myself, how and why, exactly, Gilli Merriam has escaped his well-deserved court martial --"

 _Yeah,_ Arthur thought, crossing his arms over his chest.

"-- I would like to know one thing. What possible contribution would Merriam have to the mission? He's a catastrophe as a communications specialist. He's incapable of covering his tracks. He breaks at the slightest pressure. He makes mistakes. Arthur is well within his rights to refuse someone who may be unable to separate his personal feelings toward the team with the good of the mission."

"Indeed," Bayard said flatly. He arched an eyebrow at Arthur and abruptly changed the subject. "You have something in your possession that is Directory property."

"I do?" Arthur had no intention of giving him Gilli's ring. For one thing, he wasn't so sure that he wanted a magical artefact in the hands of someone who very obviously didn't seem to know how to use it responsibly, and he wanted it in the hands of an organization who had given it to that person _even less_.

"You know what I'm talking about," Bayard said calmly. "It was removed from Merriam --"

"Sol. I have no idea what you're talking about," Arthur said. He put his hands in his pockets and gave Bayard a small, confused smile. At least, he hoped it looked small and confused, and not small and smug. He'd learned a long time ago that with him, it was a fine line.

"What is this object?" Kilgarrah asked, saving him from having to answer any more direct questions. Arthur might be a better liar than Merlin -- _by far_ \-- but Bayard _knew_ Arthur.

Bayard glanced at The Dragon with something that resembled a flash of annoyance. "A ring."

"A _magical_ ring," Kilgarrah said, the intonation a question, but it was more of a statement than anything. "And what does it do?"

Bayard sidled sideways and back, away from Kilgarrah, and said, "I'd have to check the archives."

"You do that," Kilgarrah said. A long exhalation that was nothing but solid smoke filled the air between them, and Arthur restrained a cough. "While you're at it, perhaps you should review your inventory as well and determine if there are any artefacts that may be of use to the team."

Bayard gave Kilgarrah a small, thin smile and said, "That's an excellent idea."

What Bayard was really saying was, _Maybe when your carcass is rotting under the dead sun and vultures are picking at your bones._

Arthur waited a moment to see if the pissing match would go on any longer, but when it didn't, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and caught Bayard's attention. "My understanding is that your people were going to train us up, debrief us, make us nice and shiny for the dog and pony show, and that you'd come to collect us at the end.

"Marja, Pietr, the others -- you brought them in with you. Something's going on. Can't tell me there isn't, Sol. You're pushing to get Merlin back in touch with the NWO, but there's more to it than that, isn't there?"

Bayard glanced at him, but there was a twinkle in his eye that couldn't be anything but confirmation.

"We're ready," Marja said.

Bayard turned and picked up the phone, flicking off the switch to speak. "How's the trace?"

He hung up after listening to the report, scowling again. Arthur could easily imagine what the techs on the other end of that phone call had said _untraceable_ , or something very much like it. He gestured toward some earpieces. "Grab one and listen in. Marja, give him the number."

"Don't need it," Merlin mumbled sullenly. Arthur frowned at him; Merlin frowned back, crossing his arms. He waited long enough for the others to put an earpiece in, and punched Freya's number from memory.

Coordinates, frequencies, codes. If there were numbers in them, Merlin could recite them as faithfully as if he were reciting every decimal number of pi. He might only ever have seen Freya's phone number once, but he dialled the number with the rote of someone who called it every day. He picked up the receiver and brought it to his ear.

"What's the time difference?" he asked.

"London is an hour behind," Bayard said. He glanced at everyone and made a familiar shushing gesture.

Merlin leaned forward in his chair, elbows on both knees, one hand holding the phone, the other one rubbing his forehead. The line rang three times. Four. Someone picked up on the fifth ring.

"Hello?" The voice was so quiet, Arthur wasn't sure if it was a man or a woman speaking.

Merlin sat up a little. "Uh. Hi. It's. Um. I'm calling for Freya? This is her number, yeah?"

"Who's this?" It was a woman on the other line, and she sounded angry.

"It's Merlin? I'm a friend of hers?"

There was a long silence at the other end, the familiar muffle of a finger or a hand over the cell phone pickup or mouthpiece of a hard-line phone. Arthur could make out the sound of people shouting, a scramble over furniture, the sounds of doors opening and slamming shut. There was a faint, distant _are you sure_ before another woman's voice came over the line.

"Merlin? Is that you?" Her voice was soft, tinny, even shy, but there was no missing the apprehension or the doubt in her voice.

Merlin sat up straighter and let out a soft sigh. "Oh, Gods, Freya. I'm so sorry. I've been out of touch. I just saw your emails this morning --"

"I've been sick with worry, you bastard," Freya shouted, and her voice was a dull roar over the line. "You couldn't send me an email back? Just one?"

"I'm sorry! And, no, I couldn't. I was completely cut off --"

"Bollocks! Bryn told me that you should've been able to slap together a couple of cups and a fishing line together and still be able to get to the email --"

"Freya! Freya!" Merlin was shouting now. He got to his feet and paced in a small circle, keeping within the reach of the stretchy coiled phone cord, and Marja, her eyes wide with alarm, tried to catch Merlin's attention, because this was obviously not the tone of voice nor the approach she'd wanted Merlin to take. Bayard stopped her before her hiss became audible.

"Merlin! You had me scared stiff!"

"I said I was sorry! It couldn't be helped, yeah? I was with --"

"Pendragon, right? You were with Arthur Pendragon?" Merlin glanced at Arthur, and Arthur felt a searing heat warm him all the way to his toes from that look. Merlin's eyes glanced down, and he heaved a heavy sigh as Freya continued, "I didn't believe it when I'd heard! How long have you been with him? I heard he doesn't go with just anyone -- How long, Merlin?"

"It's been a while," Merlin said softly.

"How long?" Arthur heard a squeak in Freya's voice, and he wondered if this was how girls gossiped amongst themselves when there weren't any men around. She half-covered the phone, muting what she said to someone else, but it was still audible: "It's true! He's with Pendragon!"

"Since before I saw you, back in London," Merlin admitted.

"Are you kidding me? So when you said you were _couch surfing_ , you were with him?"

"Yeah," Merlin said, turning away from the others, reaching up with a hand to brush the back of his head, his tone and body language sheepish.

"You couldn't have said when I saw you?"

Merlin's laugh was soft, a little nervous. "I wasn't sure. About us, I mean. I thought it was a one-off, you know. He's so _posh_. Then you went on that thing about. Um. The them against us thing."

Marja's eyes widened, her mouth fell open, and she glared at Bayard, her lips moving to form the words _do something, he's ruining everything_. Bayard held up his hand, frowning, listening carefully.

Freya didn't answer right away. Arthur could make out voices in the background. When she came back to the phone, she said, "What we've been hearing, he's not exactly one of _them_. Besides, him having dosh isn't a bad thing. You know Tristan's rich, and Bryn's pretty well off. That's not what matters. It's being able to let go and survive when everything collapses. Plus, you can't tell me that you mind being a kept man."

Merlin glanced over his shoulder at Arthur, his smile broad, and this time his laugh was genuine. "Yeah. Can't say I do."

Freya's voice lowered. "Are you with him now?"

"Um. I am, yeah," Merlin said, turning away, taking a deep breath.

Freya's voice grew softer, admonishing. "Gods, Merlin. Where have you been? Why didn't you answer my emails? I mean, you _disappeared!_ I heard you died! It didn't matter who Bryn talked to, he couldn't find anything out about you or -- or about _him_ \-- for the last few!"

"I've been. Um. I've been working." Merlin ran a hand through his hair again. "He said. Well. Was just better if I didn't. For a while. I didn't mean to make you worry."

Freya grumbled, but seemed to accept that. "This Arthur bloke is making you work? Is he treating you all right? I mean, I also heard he's a bit of a bastard --"

"No, no. He's all right, he's lovely," Merlin said, his voice full of warmth and affection in a way that made Arthur ache to go to him. "It's just. There was a thing. People tried to. Well. It's not important, really. He's just a bit possessive, that's all. I don't mind. Really. It's kind of nice."

Arthur's lips curled into an involuntary smile.

There was a long silence on the other end, and Freya breathed a soft sigh. "As long as he's treating you okay. What does he have you working on, anyway?"

Merlin's voice grew more animated. "Oh, it's like the things you were sending me, but not really. A lot harder to do. I'm not just cracking encryptions, I'm writing new code, and --"

Arthur didn't realize he'd moved until he was standing right behind Merlin, and Merlin froze with a sharp intake of breath, either startled to feel Arthur's hand at his throat, or Arthur's breath against his ear. Arthur knew one thing, and it was that the Arthur Pendragon from Algiers would never allow Merlin to spill secrets.

"Your mouth," Arthur breathed, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the phone, "What have I told you about your mouth, Merlin?"

A soft, trembling gasp escaped from Merlin's lips, and the sound went right to Arthur's cock.

"Um." Merlin licked his lips, lowering the phone a little. "Sorry. I forgot."

"Who are you talking to?"

"My friend. Um. Freya? I've told you about her?"

Arthur snorted and raised a meaningful brow. "Whenever you're done, _Mer_ lin. We're going to be late."

"Oh, right. Um." Merlin put the phone back to his ear. "Sorry about that, Freya --"

"He sounds so _hot_. I just bet I know what he wants you to do with your mouth," Arthur heard over the earpiece, and bit his lip to keep from chuckling -- less because of Freya's words, and more because of the deep red flush that flushed down Merlin's cheeks and throat.

"I can't believe you said that," Merlin choked out. "Anyway, I have to go. I just called to tell you not to worry, that I'm all right. I'll see you when we're in London, yeah?"

"You're not in London now? Where are you?"

Merlin breathed a shaky laugh. "Oh, you heard him. Me and my big mouth. I probably shouldn't say. I'll call you, though, once we're back, yeah? Just a couple of weeks?"

"Okay, but you call me soon as you're settled in, Merlin."

"I promise, Freya. Bye."

Merlin hung up.

Arthur could tell by the way that his shoulders lowered, the way his body relaxed, that he wasn't as angry as he had been before, not quite as anxious. He pulled the earpiece off and put it on the table. Marja seemed reluctantly satisfied with the way the conversation went, and when Bayard cast her a somewhat smug, inquiring glance, she said, "That should not have gone as well as it had."

"But it did," Bayard said, his lips in a thin line, the faintest crinkle at the corner of his mouth, as if he'd known it would work out from the beginning, and that he hadn't been against the idea when Merlin had insisted. From the flash in his eyes, Arthur knew that Bayard was absurdly pleased. The only question was why. "Arthur. Merlin. Why don't you come with me? There's something we should discuss."

 

ooOOoo

 

While Marja went off somewhere with a copy of the taped conversation between Merlin and Freya, mumbling something to the effect analyzing the voice stresses to absolutely, completely ensure that Freya bought what Merlin had said, particularly in light of Merlin's complete and abject failure in following the script, Bayard took Merlin and Arthur to a different building, to an office virtually devoid of personal decoration. Major Kilgarrah joined them, uninvited, and Bayard favoured him with all the attention of a spider waiting for a big bug to finally land in the snare of his web.

"Sit down," Bayard said, walking around the desk, opening the metal drawer on the right hand side and pulling out a file folder that he tossed on his desk, but didn't open.

Merlin pulled out one of the solid metal, completely-unpadded waiting room chairs and sat down, pointedly turning away from Arthur because it was ridiculously impossible to shake off the effects of that low, hungry voice whispering " _Your mouth, Merlin,_ " in his ear. He knew that Arthur was trying to be noble, that he wanted to wait until the rules no longer applied so that they wouldn't get court-martialled or thrown out of the service, but Merlin couldn't stand it anymore.

The rest of the team was conspiring against Merlin. Ever since they'd played the revolving dorm room game, Merlin had been on the receiving end of several elbow jabs in his ribs whenever Arthur walked past. If it wasn't Gwaine, it was Kay or Geraint or _whoever was nearest_ who barrelled into Merlin's room to announce that they'd just seen Arthur heading toward the showers wearing nothing but a towel. It was as if they had a second sense for whenever Merlin was alone, because he couldn't have _five bloody minutes of privacy_ to wank and relieve the pressure of waking up too many mornings in a row with a morning wood that was more like morning _steel_ , and being unable to do something about it because the focus of his _need_ was a few feet away and getting dressed.

Sharing a room with Arthur was bad enough. Having to endure Arthur talking to him _like that_...

Merlin shook his head and paid attention to what Bayard was saying.

"... and because of that, the usual standard operating procedures no longer seem to apply --"

"Obviously," Major Kilgarrah said, shrugging a shoulder. The man pulled out a cigarette and started puffing, and Merlin thought that The Dragon really needed to stop being so cheap when it came to fags because the ones he smoked stank like the back end of a mule's carcass. "Surely the Directory would have taken up MI-5's practices of adapting to the situation, or to allow the lead agent on the scene to make their own judgment calls --"

"The NWO is new territory," Smith said and Merlin frowned, because Smith's first name was apparently not John, but Sol, which made Merlin glance at Arthur, and wish he hadn't, because Arthur was watching the conversation between Smith and Kilgarrah with the amusement of someone who was trying very hard not to laugh, and all Merlin wanted to do at the moment was snog Arthur senseless. "MI-5 has been gathering back-end intel and was ordered to stand off from any further investigation outside of the mundane routes. They aren't equipped to deal with certain particular aspects of the NWO --"

"And neither are you," Kilgarrah said pointedly.

"More than anyone," Smith said, venom seeping into his tone.

"Really? Let me see if I have this clear," Kilgarrah said, leaning back against the wall as if they were having a conversation about the weather. "MI-5 has seven active agents attempting to infiltrate the NWO --"

"Seven? They told me it was five!"

"-- obviously they think that _you_ don't know what the fuck you're doing, and that's not being helped by the perception of using SAS soldiers as your go-team, is it?" Kilgarrah said. Merlin noticed Arthur's twitch, and couldn't tell if Arthur was insulted on behalf of his team, or trying to keep from laughing out loud.

It was probably a combination of the two.

"If I happened to have personnel who fit the NWO's criteria _at the time_ and used the opportunity that _Merlin_ had --" Smith glanced in Merlin's direction with a withering look that made him wonder if he should cower and try to hide, or stand up and walk out of the room.

"You're the one who put them in this situation --"

"That was MI-5!"

"No -- all MI-5 did was put Arthur in contact with one of their agents, who turned out to be a double agent, and you should be on your knees thanking whatever deities made you _this_ lucky, because it turns out that Muirden didn't have enough of a lead time between getting the call to meet Arthur and actually meeting him to warn his NWO compatriots that MI-5 was sending someone else in." Kilgarrah flicked the ash of his cigarette on the floor. "Merlin happened to instigate a series of events with one phone call -- and that was a set of happy circumstance, which seems to be something that _you_ have difficulty comprehending."

There was an undertone of _something else_ to Kilgarrah's words, and Merlin shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing at Arthur, who's amusement had turned into something dark and clouded.

"This isn't about me being a NWO spy?" Merlin asked, his voice soft.

"You're not a spy," Kilgarrah answered, and at the same time, Smith said, "Of course not."

"Right," Merlin said, shifting back in his seat. There was a pretty good chance that Kilgarrah wasn't lying, but he wasn't sure about Smith. "Just checking."

Arthur heaved a heavy sigh. "If you two are done your pissing match, why are we here, Sol?"

"Also, I thought his name was John?" Merlin asked, looking pointedly at Arthur.

Arthur grimaced, sat up a little straighter, and ignored "Sol"'s very loud throat-clearing to sweep a hand in Smith's direction. "Merlin, this is Solomon Bayard, former British Army, currently one of the Senior Agents for the Directory. You might know him as Mister Smith."

"Bayard, huh?" Merlin said, glancing between a displeased Smith/Bayard to an indifferent Arthur, raising a brow that meant they would talk later. Merlin turned to Kilgarrah and Bayard, and said, "Well, what he said. If you two are done with the pissing match..."

Bayard scowled faintly, and the otherwise expressionless mask on his face took on the demeanour of someone rewinding the conversation to recall where he'd left off.

"Standard Operating Procedures?" Arthur prompted.

Bayard nodded. He stepped around the desk, keeping clear of Kilgarrah, and said, "Yes. As evidenced by your successes in countermanding traditional approaches on the training field --

He paused, as if expecting Kilgarrah to say something about that, but The Dragon shrugged his shoulders in a _too easy_ gesture.

"-- and your ability to improvise on the go, something that the two of you have a remarkable ability to do if your recent phone call to Freya was anything to go by --"

There was another pause.

"It appears that what Solomon is trying to say is that he is beginning to understand that whatever plan of attack that the Directory has compiled for the team's operations is not going to work under the current mandate," Kilgarrah said.

Bayard looked as if he'd been made to swallow a large, bitter pill, and it had gotten lodged in his throat.

"Plain and simple, the Directory doesn't have a plan."

"That's not true," Bayard protested.

"You have a _goal_ ," Kilgarrah clarified, "Which is, as far as I'm aware, to systematically break down and parcel off the NWO to the appropriate authorities while retaining control over whatever magical aspects they are involved in; and to ultimately discover what fiendish plot that they intend to enact within the current calendar year."

There was a pregnant, expectant pause.

"Of course," Bayard said, sounding wary. Merlin glanced at Arthur, gratified to see the slightest raise of a brow, the tilt of his head, and the purse of his lips that hinted at _that's not all you have planned_. No one called Bayard on it, though.

Kilgarrah went on, "You have a long list of people that you want to get to, and you may even have scenarios that you intend to stage to get to these people, but you have absolutely no groundwork to establish a long-term mission outside of the sphere of Arthur and Merlin's current situation."

Bayard didn't say anything. Arthur looked thoughtful. Kilgarrah blew smoke through his nostrils, and Merlin's eyes were burning.

"Wait. What? What current situation?" Merlin glanced around, wondering why no one else was surprised.

"The NWO knows about us, Merlin," Arthur said, keeping his eyes on Bayard, as if he didn't trust the other man and wasn't avoiding Merlin's gaze. "They know about you because you grew up with a few of them. They know about you because you've got a specialized skill set that they want. They know about me because I was seen at that party in Algiers, and they know that I'm with Pendragon Consulting. I'm assuming that they are also aware of my army background?"

Bayard nodded. "Truncated, of course."

"Of course." Arthur rubbed his forehead in a slip of frustration. "I assume you'll be sharing my new background with me?"

Bayard hesitated, but he had the good grace to sound embarrassed. "Of course."

There was a long silence before anyone spoke again, and that was only because Merlin elbowed Arthur until he showed signs of life again.

"The situation is," Arthur said, pausing, "That the NWO knows about _us_ , that, because you were at the Algiers party with me, and now, because of the phone call, _we_ have a situation."

"That's correct," Bayard said.

Kilgarrah blew out more smoke through his nostrils.

"Again," Merlin said, looking around the room, "And maybe use small words for the slow car on the train, but what situation is that?"

Arthur's lips pressed in a thin line, and was that Merlin's imagination, but did Arthur's cheeks flush faintly, but he didn't answer. Bayard half-chuckled in something that sounded like _really? you haven't figured it out by now?_. Kilgarrah studied the end of his burning cigarette as an excuse either not to make eye contact, or to suppress the laughter curling around his lips. They were waiting for Merlin to catch up, but so far, Merlin was still lagging far behind.

"Show him the video," Kilgarrah suggested.

"Which one?" Bayard asked.

"The one Arthur wanted to see. The one entertaining arms dealers worldwide and that is also no doubt making the rounds at NWO headquarters. The hotel in Algiers."

Bayard pulled at a roll-out hideaway keyboard from his desk, entering what looked to be a long password, keying in a few commands that led to him twirling the computer monitor around. It was a grainy, full-screen video that looked _wrong_ until Merlin realized that it only looked wrong because it wasn't the lobby security footage that he'd been led to expect, but decent-quality camera-phone video held at about hip-height, angled to take in the full view.

The implications of this didn't escape him. Someone had either headed them off to the hotel and had been _waiting_ , possibly to talk to Arthur or confront the group, only, they'd been intercepted first by members of Trickler's people. Worse, _somehow_ , someone had tracked them to their hotel where anything could have happened.

Merlin's belly filled with dread as he watched the screen.

Gwaine and Kay were running ahead of Arthur and the others; at the very least, their identities had been compromised as Arthur's employees. It were only the six of them in the lobby -- Gwaine and Kay, Arthur and Merlin, with Perceval and Owain in the rear -- and whoever else was in the lobby who passed time taking random videos, and the concierge behind the front desk.

Merlin sat a bit on the edge of his chair, catching himself before he fell off completely, his mouth dropping open when he saw just how _horrible_ he'd looked after Trickler dragged him through that shield that wouldn't let him through, cutting him with the magical equivalent of razor blades. His hair had been slicked back with blood, and instead of the faint purple sheen in the black, there was a rusty look to it, as if he'd rolled around in copper dust. His body was _dripping_ blood, leaving a dripping trail behind them, transferring to Arthur as it seeped onto his clothing.

He'd been limp, arms and legs dangling, head barely cradled in the crook of Arthur's elbow, for all appearances, well on his way to dying, or already dead, except rigor mortis hadn't set in yet.

 _Shite._ Merlin had known it had been bad -- the pain at the time had made him wish he'd died. He hadn't realized that it had _looked_ even worse than it had felt.

In the video clip, they were waiting for the elevator to come down. Perceval went to stand next to Arthur, offering to take Merlin's weight. Merlin's body.

Nearly as soon as he stepped forward, his arms outstretched, Perceval backed away, holding up his hands in apology. Whatever Arthur had said was lost in the distance, drowned out by the ambient noise, the camera phone's pickup not strong enough to focus on one person's voice, but Merlin didn't spend too much time wondering what Arthur had said because he was seeing Arthur's face.

There were tears. They streaked down his cheeks like rivers, marring gunpowder and dirt and a smear of blood on the side of his face. His mouth was set in a trembling line, despair, desperation, fear shining in his eyes where Merlin had only ever seen resolution, determination, and courage.

Merlin's chest tightened, compressing his ribs together so much that he swore he felt a couple of them snap, the sternum aching in the middle of his chest the way it hurt when he had taken a barrage of bullets right _there_ , the Kevlar holding against the high-velocity targets but not doing much to dissipate the force of the impact.

He slipped back in his chair, not wanting to see any more but unable to look away, because that video was the car accident that everyone slowed down for on the road, rubbernecking to get a better view of the carnage, of the twisted metal, of the smoke and the flame, of the bodies being lifted onto gurneys and leisurely rolled into the back of a waiting ambulance because there was no rush to get them anywhere but the cold slab table at the morgue.

"That looked bad," Merlin managed, in a quiet voice that cracked to his ears. He glanced at Arthur, who hadn't looked away from the video screen, who didn't seem to be _seeing_ the part where the doors closed and Kay and Gwaine stayed behind to keep an eye out for anyone who might be following them, or the part where the person filming abruptly jerked the phone away so that he wouldn't be caught. It was a dizzying jumble of fast-wipe images that included a blotch that might be a tropical plant, a blob that might have been another person, and a fuzzy close-up of the patterned fabric stretched over a chair or a couch. Arthur's attention was lost somewhere, his gaze unfocused and glazed over and wet with tears that didn't spill down his cheeks, his elbow propped on the arm of the chair, his fingers splayed across his face to hide his expression.

Merlin swallowed.

There was a long silence following the black screen, a few ambient sounds, a whispered, "He's attached to his little pet, isn't he?"

Arthur sat up straighter, uncomfortable, awkward, wiping his face with the brush of his fingers in a gesture that was more to get rid of an annoying eyelash or bit of dirt that had been bothering his eye.

The video clip ran out; the media player offered a blank screen with a sideways triangle on it, offering to play it again, and it absurdly made Merlin think of YouTube. He felt a cold wash down his spine. What if it were? What if his _Mum_ saw that? She would have his hide --

"Do you understand now?" Bayard asked.

Merlin wanted to say no. He was desperate to say no. He needed to say no. Luckily, he was saved from having to say anything, because Kilgarrah spoke up.

"As far as anyone seeing this video is concerned, the relationship between you two that was played out in Algiers was not -- and is not -- a temporary arrangement. You'll be continuing in the same roles from this point on. You'll be very much a couple, very much together, with Arthur as the aggressor.

"If you have any compunctions to the contrary -- shelve them," Kilgarrah said. "On the outside looking in, your disappearances from the radar following Algiers only added fuel and speculation to the fire. You'll have been with Arthur all this time, recovering, Arthur making certain that you're healthy and safe -- you'll obviously have gotten closer in this time.

"You should act like it."

Merlin risked a glance at Arthur, catching Arthur looking away from him at the same moment.

"You'll have to get _comfortable_ with each other," Bayard said, raising his eyebrows suggestively. "That should present no issue, given that you both prefer men --"

_How did --_

The wonder of how Bayard had known that tumbled down the hole of Stupid Questions and Wasted Breath and Hello, Mister Obvious, because Bayard was a bloody _secret agent_ and _of course_ he knew that.

It didn't stop Merlin from blinking repeatedly as what Bayard had said sank in all the way and his mental processors fired up. Was Bayard really hinting at what Merlin thought he was hinting? Was he implying that Merlin and Arthur engage in... that very thing that Merlin wanted to engage in? Was he getting _permission_ to jump Arthur and have his way with him? Repeatedly? Because, quite frankly, while having permission was _nice_ , he didn't care about anyone else's opinion on the matter except for Arthur's, and he knew very well what Arthur's thoughts were: to wait until there weren't any further complications for them.

Merlin glanced at Arthur. Arthur stared at... Merlin wasn't sure what Arthur was staring at, but it wasn't anything in the room. If Merlin really thought about it, it looked more as if Arthur were grimacing, or bracing, or even dreading _something_.

"But. Our commissions? It's against the rules?" Merlin asked, suddenly uncertain, because he'd heard the small little cough from Kilgarrah, saw the smirk on Bayard's face, and Arthur abruptly stood to his feet.

"Come on, _Mer_ lin. We'll discuss this somewhere else," Arthur said.

Arthur tugged at his arm, but Merlin wasn't sure that his legs were working.

"You don't have to worry about that," Bayard said, glancing between the two of them as if something had finally dawned on him, and Merlin wished he'd been let in on the joke, because he wasn't finding any of this funny at all.

"Why's that?" Merlin asked, afraid of hearing the answer.

"Didn't you know?" Bayard asked, raising an imperious brow at Arthur, the set of his lips on a smugness rating that Merlin desperately wanted to knock from his face. After he heard what Bayard said.

"Know what?" Merlin grit his teeth. Arthur pulled weakly on his shirt, but Merlin ignored him.

"One of the conditions for your secondment under the Directory's command was a complete release from the British Army's rules of conduct. It was a clause that we had no issue with agreeing to, considering that it works in our favour. You see, if you don't have the freedom to act in the way that your roles require you to act, then you won't be very convincing, don't you agree?  
For example, I can't have any of the team in the field questioning whether they should take a shot because it isn't a righteous kill --" Bayard paused and shrugged with faint mockery. "As of the moment you signed the papers, Excalibur was free and clear to act under the Directory's auspices and protection as undercover agents under the Crown. You can fraternize all you want -- and I certainly hope that you will, if you hope to maintain your covers -- and there will be no risk whatsoever to your commissions."

Merlin didn't blink.

He. Um.

Fraternization.

What?

The news sank in slowly, word after word.

Since signing the agreement.

The rules of conduct no longer applied.

No charges levied against them.

Fraternize all they want.

Merlin turned to look at Arthur, all the words he wanted to say -- to shout -- dying in his throat because he didn't have the air in his chest to say them. Arthur -- the bastard -- wouldn't look at him. In fact, he looked a little flushed in the cheeks, a little put off, and a lot as if he never wanted Merlin to have heard all this in the first place.

If it were true -- and from the sounds of it, Bayard wasn't pulling his chain -- _what the bloody_ fuck _had they been holding back for?_

All those frustrating nights of sleeping in the same room as Arthur, with him only feet away? All those glimpses of Arthur's bare, perfect arse when he dressed in the morning or changed clothes? All that time in their quarters, watching Arthur concentrate on the documents he'd been given to study that day while Merlin pretended to be reading his books of magic?

A strangled sound started deep in his belly but never made it out.

Did Arthur... Had Arthur changed his mind about Merlin? About... them? Was that why Arthur hadn't told him? Was that why Arthur had tried to get them out of the room before Bayard could reveal that little detail?

Merlin's mind was on a berserker rampage of confused emotions -- elated that there wasn't anything standing in the way anymore, angry that he hadn't been told, overwhelmed with unparalleled sexual frustration, and bewildered, because if Arthur had known this all along, _why hadn't he_ done _anything?_

_"You really should read all the fine print before you sign a contract," Major Kilgarrah said, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes visible even despite the cloud of smoke from the fresh cigarette dangling from his lip._

_Merlin nearly flew him a two-fingered salute. Instead, he aborted the gesture in mid-movement and altered it to rub his face._

_There was a faint shuffling of feet behind him, a fleeting touch on his shoulder that faded in the same moment, and a heavy sigh -- Merlin thought that it was the heavy sigh of someone who damn well knew that they'd fucked up, and he couldn't help but glare over his shoulder at Arthur and think, _too right you did.__

"If there isn't anything else...?" Arthur asked, sounding post-rucksack run out of breath, with that little hitch in his breath that came from heaving in shallow huffs, trying to ease the stitch that was tearing into his side because he hadn't been breathing properly for the last few kilometres.

There was a long pause in which Merlin thought Bayard was enjoying their growing misery a little too much, but he reacted before Major Kilgarrah could dismiss them.

"Actually, there is," Bayard said, reaching into the side desk drawer to pull out two folders, both of them with pre-printed TOP SECRET across the header, with signatures and the Directory's logo across the middle. He passed one to The Dragon and left the other one on the far edge of the desk.

When Arthur didn't move, Merlin reached for the folder, flipped it open and winced when he saw the first sheet, complete with photographs. He flipped it closed and passed it over his head at Arthur.

Bayard raised an eyebrow in Major Kilgarrah's direction. The Dragon was already flipping through the document, skimming the contents.

"It should come as no surprise that the Directory has contingency action _scenarios_ to be put in action if and when certain criteria have been met. A series of events and semi-substantiated rumours have come to not only our attention, but the attention of several intelligence agencies across the world."

"You mean to have us do a repeat of Algiers," Arthur said from behind Merlin. Merlin half-closed his eyes and suppressed an involuntary shudder.

"Something along those lines, yes. While most of the people attending the gala will be from legitimate manufacturers and suppliers, it's come to our notice that several names associated as go-betweens with the NWO will be present."

"Legitimate manufacturers," Arthur repeated, his tone flat. "That's a problem, if you intend on sending me -- us. There was a small demonstration from suppliers of military weapons on the base. If they didn't know my name and who I am before, they know now, and they've met Merlin."

"That's been taken care of," Bayard said, and Merlin shivered again, but this time, it wasn't a good sort of chills. He took out another folder from his drawer, this one thicker. "This covers your history in the military, including the events of that demonstration, where several people witnessed a very loud, very angry blowout between you and your father following the war games."

Merlin glanced over his shoulder. He didn't remember that happening, and from the expression on Arthur's face, neither did he.

"Merlin's identity -- and that of your team -- has been guaranteed secure by several agents. Not only has the personal and official documentation of the demonstration at that time been reviewed and redacted where necessary, but it was confirmed that none of the companies have any record of the names of the members of Excalibur. In addition, the people who were actually _present_..."

"Met with unfortunate ends?" Major Kilgarrah asked.

Bayard shrugged a shoulder. "If you want to put it in those terms. Think what you will."

"Shite," Merlin breathed, feeling queasy all of a sudden. He shifted in his seat and made to stand, but Bayard's stare kept him there.

"There were no photographs, no camera, no video of the event; we made sure of that. The only name that stands out to anyone is Arthur's."

"Fine," Arthur breathed after a long silence. The faint breeze of a file folder snapping shut behind Merlin's head ruffled his hair. He didn't sound happy.

"Your father has agreed to send you to Paris for the gala in his place, citing a scheduling conflict, and he has made it clear to everyone who's listening that he is not happy to send you but that he has no other choice. This is at our request. Ms LeFay will also be present as the spokesperson of the company. Owing to her security clearance, she has been read in on some of the superficial facts of the situation."

"Oh, God. No. Leave Morgana out of this."

"It can't be helped," Major Kilgarrah muttered, shrugging a shoulder.

Arthur said something under his breath that only Merlin could hear, and he could only imagine what Arthur was feeling, never mind _thinking_ right now. Then, louder, Arthur said, "You'll be keeping eyes on her at all times?"

"Absolutely," Bayard said.

"Fine," Arthur said again, and this time, he sounded absolutely furious. "Who are we after?"

Bayard flopped another file folder on the desk, this time leaving it open to a photograph.

"Jonathan Aredian."

 

ooOOoo

 

Merlin wasn't speaking to him, Leon was going to kill him, and Morgana was going to have a grand old time with the cloak and dagger game. Arthur was sure of it.

They had less than a week to prepare; they would be heading to Paris in two days to take up residence in one of the larger Pendragon properties, out in one of the outer _arrondissements_ which was a quick trip by Métro to the downtown areas, or a vicious drive depending on who was behind the wheel. The Directory was already setting up the building for surveillance and security, sending ahead the armaments and clothing that each member of Excalibur would need to carry out their roles.

It wouldn't be a full team mission, taking more of a reconnaissance manoeuvre, making a meaningful appearance so that their faces would be seen, while at the same time, avoiding any aggressive approaches that would bring them near Aredian. Aredian wasn't the sort that could be accosted in a crowd; if he wanted to talk to them, then he would. Given the man's history, Arthur was certain he could draw Aredian out of his shell.

Bayard had made clear what he expected Arthur and Merlin and the rest of the team to do if Aredian crossed their paths. That was secondary to what Arthur's primary role was going to be -- maintaining his cover as the petulant, spoiled brat of a fat cat CEO who could no longer control his son, but who was unwilling to completely cut the strings. Arthur was certain that he would be hearing from his father at one point or another, and that he would be dictated on how to behave, who to talk to, and what to talk about, in particular to keep a tight rein on their primary investors and to schmooze with old and new clients.

Arthur might be operating under the Directory's auspices, but there was still the Pendragon family business to think about, and to take care of; he had to handle this delicately if he ever hoped to have a hand in the business when this was all over.

But first, there were more pressing matters to be dealt with. Starting with Merlin.

Arthur could read _fuck off_ in Merlin's body language, and that _fuck off_ grew louder and more persistent the more Arthur followed Merlin across the compound, away from the anonymous building that hosted the secret communications centre, away from the administrative brick-and-mortar where Bayard was running things. Merlin's shoulders were set back, his gait was stiff, his hands knotted and unknotted in fists, and if anything, Arthur was sure that he could hear Merlin grinding his teeth.

Merlin was a little taller than Arthur, not enough to make a big difference, but between those long legs of his, the anger fuelling him and the way Merlin was stalking down the road, those spare centimetres turned into metres. Arthur kept up with him, but every now and then, Arthur needed to walk faster just to stay in range.

He figured that if he didn't lose Merlin, at some point, either Merlin's temper would dissipate on its own, or Arthur would figure out what to say to defuse the situation.

It _wouldn't_ be a situation if Bayard hadn't opened his big gob. Yes, it had been a bad idea not to tell Merlin that they were no longer under any sort of restriction for their relationship, but it wasn't as if Arthur was keeping it a secret, was he? It was laid out in black and white on the agreement that they'd all signed, and they each had a copy to read and review -- it wasn't Arthur's fault that Merlin hadn't bothered to read it carefully.

If anything, Merlin should be _pleased_. Not only did they no longer have the rules hanging over their heads, but now they had carte blanche to _fool around_ , even if it was done while undercover, playing a role.

It wasn't ideal, Arthur knew. He'd had plans for how he wanted this to go about. He had wanted to wait until the training was over -- no use in distracting themselves when they had a truckload's worth of material to learn and new tactics to prepare. He had wanted to wait until they were in London, in the privacy of Arthur's home, where he could tell Merlin what he had done to guarantee that no one could confront them about their relationship and hang them for it. He wanted to take the time to court and seduce Merlin the way Merlin should be courted and seduced, starting with presents and dinners out and dates.

Bayard's revelation accelerated Arthur's timetable somewhat, and having to recoup their roles so soon meant that there would be very little for _them_ , but Arthur thought they could do it. That they could make it work.

Except for the problem that Merlin was upset. Arthur wished he knew what to do.

That was why he was chasing after Merlin. Normally, if a member of Excalibur was angry about something, Arthur would let them stew in whatever it was until the fuse had burnt itself out, until they'd worked it out for themselves and let it blow over, or simply be there when they were ready to talk about it -- or let it out of their system.

Arthur wasn't entirely certain why he was following Merlin instead of taking his usual approach, why he was putting himself in the line of fire to take the full blast of Merlin's anger, but he was sure it had something to do with the fact that Merlin was _important_ to him, and that he was absolutely terrified of having bollocksed up their relationship before they even had one.

He knew he should say something to explain why he hadn't taken advantage of the fact that now that there wasn't a threat of a court martial over their head, and of the relative privacy of their own dorm room to indulge in the very maddening _something_ that he'd been bloody well _craving_ for months now.

Merlin.

The problem was, he didn't know what he should say.

 _Yes, I knew about it. Yes, I could've --_ we _could've been... you know. But there's_ cameras, Merlin _! They've got audio!_

Arthur really, _really_ didn't want any sort of performance on video for some Directory clotpole to watch on the security monitors, and he was fairly certain that Merlin wouldn't want that, either. It made perfect sense, but the excuse sounded weak, even in Arthur's head.

If there wasn't so much swirling around in his mind at the moment -- the upcoming mission, Morgana's involvement, Bayard's manipulations, _Kilgarrah's_ manipulations, Uther's directives, and so on and so forth -- he might actually be able to come up with an explanation that didn't sound half-arsed, that Merlin _might_ accept.

They were at the halfway point of the compound by the time that Arthur figured out where it was that Merlin was going. Not the mess hall, not the work area where they were more or less guaranteed some privacy after Owain set off one of his EMPs in the area as a "test" that hadn't been on purpose (not at all), not the small archival room that doubled as a library and that was set up for Merlin's use only. Merlin was heading toward the building that doubled as the team's dorm.

All sorts of twisted sensations curdled his gut. Why was Merlin heading there? Was he -- was he going to pack up his stuff and move to a different room? Was he -- was he going to leave altogether? They still hadn't had the opportunity to sit down and _talk_ about Merlin's magic, about his ability, and Arthur didn't know if Merlin could magic himself somewhere else, far away, where Arthur would never find him.

That thought struck complete, abject fear in his heart. He couldn't let that happen. It drove him to catch up to Merlin.

Couldn't Merlin see that Arthur was doing what was best? What they _should_ be doing anyway? He had asked Merlin to wait. Merlin said that he would.

They were less than a week from getting out from under the Directory's microscope. Didn't Merlin see that? Couldn't he figure it out for himself that Arthur was waiting for the perfect moment when the two of them could be well and truly alone, without cameras filming every single touch, recording soft moans that were meant for Arthur's ears alone, and, most importantly, without the looming sceptre of the team's "Fuck Pool", the one he wasn't supposed to know about, but where the team was blocking the calendar down to the day, if not the hour, where Arthur and Merlin were supposed to finally break down and shag.

"Merlin! Arthur! There's something you should see --" Gwaine trotted up toward them, half-laughing. When he caught up to them, he slowed down to a walk, a fast walk that kept him in that breathless laugh while he struggled to keep up. Merlin barely glanced in Gwaine's direction, giving him an acknowledging nod but keeping his eyes straight ahead, a juggernaut bearing down on a target. Arthur had a feeling he knew who the target was, and didn't want it to be a hapless innocent who had no idea of the coiled fury inside Merlin.

Although, when it came to Gwaine...

 _Arthur_ was a little terrified of that anger. He'd never seen Merlin angry, not once, and he didn't know what shape or form it was going to take. He only knew, the way he _knew_ things when it came to Merlin, that he couldn't let anyone else be on the receiving end of Merlin's temper, not when he was somehow the cause. It couldn't be anyone else but him.

Arthur gave Gwaine a head-shake he hoped that, this once, Gwaine would understand, but the man was thick at the _wrong_ times. "-- it's Owain, he's doing this trick with one of the magical napalm bombs, and..."

Gwaine paused, _finally_ picking up on Arthur's quick, small, tiny hand signals, but not paying enough attention to decipher them. He glanced between Arthur to Merlin, to the set of Merlin's jaw, the way Merlin's hands were, at the moment, clenched so tight that Arthur half-thought he should be seeing blood dripping from his hands. Gwaine turned to Arthur, putting a hand on his arm. "What's going on?"

"Not now, Gwaine," Arthur hissed. He shrugged free of Gwaine's hand and jerked his head off to the side, hoping, _for the love of God_ that Gwaine would leave. When Gwaine frowned, Arthur mouthed, _go away_ , half turning his body to gesture back the way Gwaine had come. Arthur noticed the rest of the team lounging near one of the cube buildings, crowded around Owain, half of them watching Merlin and Arthur and Gwaine.

"Did you two have a spat?" Gwaine asked, half amused, half concerned.

"For fuck's sake, Gwaine, you're being right thick. Take the hint. _Not now_ ," Arthur snapped, raising a brow in what he hoped was his most undeniably piercing glare, though he was fairly certain it was more like a desperate plead.

Gwaine frowned, but he lagged behind until he came to a stop, and Arthur could feel his eyes burning a hole in his back until Gwaine barked a laugh, loud and joyous, and turned around to join the others, shouting, "Who has this time slot in the pool? It's me, isn't it?"

Arthur groaned inwardly when the tension between Merlin's shoulders stretched even tighter. He hurried to catch up.

Merlin slipped into the dorm building, letting the door slam into Arthur's shoulder. Arthur rushed up the stairs, but somehow Merlin had gotten half a storey ahead. The bastard was never this quick on rucksack runs.

"Merlin!"

Merlin stopped on their floor and the fire door clanged shut behind him. Arthur didn't remember the door being so heavy before; he grunted to wrench it open, his arm straining, and with a gasp, it flew open, nearly sending him tumbling backwards down the stairs.

The hallway with its drab off-white walls and speckled beige floors, bare of any decoration except for doorways, fire extinguishers, and surveillance cameras, was empty.

Arthur's stomach clenched. He couldn't breathe. All sorts of warning klaxons were going off in his head, and he was thinking that he should reconsider chasing Merlin after all.

There was an ominous silence in the corridor. One of the glaring fluorescent lights overhead flickered in a cyclic, predictable pattern.

It was like the set of a horror movie, one of those freaky Japanese ones, where the hapless hero or heroine would be walking down a hallway of some old, cookie-cutter building that seemed to spring up on every street corner of every city in every country, and the flickering lights would shut off one by one behind them as they slowly, stupidly _walked_ to the other end, instead of running toward the nearest exit and _getting the fuck out_. Arthur was halfway down the corridor before he realized that not only were the lights staying on, but _he couldn't hear his own footsteps._

He couldn't hear himself breathe.

Frowning slightly, Arthur cleared his throat. He coughed. His chest rumbled with sound, except he wasn't making any noise at all.

He glanced over his shoulder as he walked, but the lights didn't flicker, they didn't turn off, and a monster didn't surge out of the shadows or from the dark.

Unfortunately.

Arthur stopped in front of his dorm room. _Their_ dorm room. His hand lingered on the doorknob, and he wondered at the heat he felt on the handle.

He wondered about Merlin's temper.

Arthur hesitated.

He twisted the doorknob. It wasn't locked, like he'd expected. He pushed in, but it swung easily on the hinges, with none of the resistance that he'd felt on the fire door.

"--lin?" Arthur said, frowning, because he hadn't heard the first part of Merlin's name until he crossed the threshold. Abruptly, he was _pulled_ two steps into the room as if by some sort of vacuum, the door wrenching out of his hand and slamming shut behind him.

Merlin was leaning back against the desk tucked under the window between both of the cots, his legs stretched out with one foot resting on top of the other, his arms crossed over his chest, his chin tucked down, his gaze steady under long eyelashes in a gaze that was at once angrily searing and inadvertently seductive.

His eyes were gold.

Bright, brilliant, molten gold.

"Merlin!" Arthur warned, glancing over his shoulder, up at the wide-angle, fish-lens camera tucked in the corner, in that damning corner that recorded every moment of their stay on the Directory's campus. He moved to use his body to block the camera's line-of-sight and hoped that no one was watching right now, that no one would go back through the video footage and see that Merlin's eyes were bloody _gold_ and realize that he was doing magic.

He almost tripped over himself in surprise when he whirled around.

The camera was hanging from the wall by a single, frayed wire. Several other cables -- one thick enough to be a power source, several others for the video feed and the sound -- hung out of a large hole punched in the plasterboard, swaying slightly.

Arthur turned to Merlin with alarm. " _Mer_ lin! They could've seen you --"

"I climbed up and tore it out with my bare hands," Merlin said flatly.

The words died in Arthur's throat. He could just picture Merlin climbing up on the bed, reaching up, and trying to disconnect the camera -- he'd caught Merlin at it more than once. More unbelievable was the mental image of Merlin grabbing the object and wrenching it out. With his bare hands. Yanking out a bolted-mount from the four-by-four post, ripping the wires asunder with brute strength alone. He swallowed. "Right."

"John Smith is Solomon Bayard," Merlin said.

Arthur stared at him, unsure, confused, because of all the things he expected Merlin to say, _that_ was not the thing he thought Merlin would lead with. "Yes."

"And you've known that for how long?"

"Merlin --"

"How long?"

Arthur ran a hand over his mouth, rubbing his cheek and jaw. "Since I was seven."

Merlin didn't say anything, and there was an echo in the silence that Arthur found unbearable. He filled it with an awkward, "He's my father's friend."

"Okay," Merlin said. He tilted his head and nodded, as if it made sense to him, as if he understood. Maybe he did. His arms uncrossed only enough for him to pull an arm free, and he made a slight gesture in the air. "And the other thing?"

He started to ask, _what other thing_ , brave and stupid like an idiot, but some sort of intelligence returned to him in time. "Right before I gave the list of demands to Kilgarrah, I added a couple of extra items."

"So, before we went on the mission? Before all that bollocks with Gilli? Before we let some rebels blow up our ride and hiked our way back? Before you _kissed_ me?"

Arthur winced slightly, glancing around his shoulder. The door was shut -- and as he watched, the door locked on its own.

"Don't worry, they can't hear us."

Merlin's eyes were still gold, but they had lost some of the lustre, not sparkling nearly as brightly, now, and there was blue, like the sky in the fading sunshine, in his gaze. Arthur thought back to the corridor, how he hadn't been able to hear anything at all, and shivered involuntarily.

"What's the area of effect?"

Merlin shrugged a shoulder, and a hint of sheepishness crept into his expression. "I might have gone a little overboard."

"Damn it, Merlin! You're supposed to be _careful!_ Do you think this is careful?" Arthur waved a hand at the camera.

"Don't you talk to me about _careful_ ," Merlin snapped, pushing himself from the desk abruptly, his arms by his side, taking a single step closer to Arthur. "I've been careful my whole bloody life. I know how to be careful! But this? What is this, Arthur? Why didn't you tell me about the conditions?"

Merlin paused, giving Arthur a chance to answer, but it wasn't long enough. "I --"

"Did something happen? Did I do something? You changed your mind about... about us, haven't you?" Merlin's last question was an anguished stammer that propelled Arthur forward, grabbing hold of Merlin's arms.

"No! God. No! Never! Don't you think that, Merlin --"

"Then _why?_ " Merlin shrugged at Arthur's hands, trying to free himself, but his efforts were small and without strength, a flutter of energy that left Merlin's hands in the crook of Arthur's elbows, fingers grasping tightly. "I thought. If nothing was in the way --"

"It's _this place_ ," Arthur hissed. "The bloody invasive cameras, the bugs --"

"You don't think I couldn't do something about it?"

" _When_?" Arthur asked, his eyes wide. "When, Merlin? Owain's barely had the time to build the one EMP, and they've had you studying all those books until you're so dazed you mumble gibberish into your coffee. The sound dampeners --"

"Do I look like I need a sound dampener? Or that I'm worried about the cameras?" Merlin tilted his head in the way he did when he thought Arthur was being an idiot, when he was close to detailing just _how, exactly,_ Arthur was being an idiot.

Arthur couldn't help it. He turned his head slightly toward the corner with the destroyed camera, feeling a little bit of awe at Merlin's magic, and a little stupid, too, because he hadn't _thought_ that Merlin could use his magic for that. That he even _should_.

"You just had to _tell me_. We could have had... We could have..." Merlin's cheeks coloured slightly, but he went on, "We could have had privacy _any time_."

Arthur shook his head.

"Making sure that they don't catch you doing _things_ is more important! I don't want you to get caught. I promised you that I'd protect you --" From the Directory, from the NWO, from anyone who would hurt him, but Arthur didn't get a chance to go on.

"You don't get to make the call about what's more important, Arthur!" Merlin's fingers were digging hard enough into Arthur's arms to leave bruises.

"We're almost out of here, Merlin. No cameras, no bugs, no Directory --" Arthur pulled Merlin closer, because he could, because it was sinking in that right now, there was no camera, no listening devices, no one else. "I just wanted to do this _right_. I wanted it perfect. Have you at mine again. Make you dinner. Take you out. Just the two of us --"

"I'm not a bloody _girl_ , Arthur. I don't need to be _courted_ ," Merlin said, the anger seeping out of his expression. Arthur could feel the tension fading, too, and he thought he saw the faintest quirk of a smile on Merlin's lips. "I mean, it would be _nice_. But. Arthur. I don't need it. I..."

Merlin licked his lips. His eyes trailed down, fixing on Arthur's mouth. Arthur's breath caught in his lungs.

"But I want to --" Arthur started.

"Maybe _you're_ the girl," Merlin interrupted, with a faint snort. There was a pinch between his brows, and Arthur wanted desperately to smooth it out. "You should have told me, Arthur. You don't know. You don't. It's been driving me mad, being here, staying in the same room with you --"

" _I don't know_?" Arthur shook Merlin with disbelief. "What do you mean, I don't know? I'm the one who sleeps in that bed. You're in arm's reach! I can't stop thinking about slipping under the covers next to you in _your_ cot. You wake me up in the middle night, did you know that? All those soft little noises that you make. It's been driving _you_ mad? What do you think it does to _me_ , Merlin, when I hear you moan my name in your sleep?"

Merlin stared. "I. I don't --"

"Oh, yes, you talk in your sleep, _Mer_ lin," Arthur said, taking a step closer, letting go of Merlin's arms to slide his hands over Merlin's waist. It had sunk in, all the way in, finally, that there was no one listening, no one watching. He also realized that he was the biggest idiot on the planet, but he wasn't going to admit to that right now. "Never anything I can make out. Noises. Moans. Groans. _My name._ "

Merlin made one of those little sounds again, and it went right to Arthur's cock. Arthur broached the space between them, and Merlin took a tiny step back.

"Do you know how bloody jealous I am? That a _a dream_ can make you sound like that? That I have to lay there and _listen_ , when I want to be on top of you, making you louder and louder until you _scream my name_?"

He'd backed Merlin against the desk . Merlin's hands slid up Arthur's arms. Merlin's lips trembled, and Arthur couldn't mistake the shiver on his skin for anything else but desire, not with the sheer lust darkening his eyes. Arthur aligned his hips with Merlin's, leaning in to kiss --

\-- Merlin shoved him. Arthur stumbled back, his eyes fluttering open, flashing with a second round of want and need when he saw that Merlin's eyes were thinly ringed with gold, his pupils too black, swallowing Arthur whole.

"Merlin --"

"It didn't have to be a bloody wet dream! It could have been _you_!" Merlin stalked him, hands warm on Arthur's chest. Arthur's breath was stolen by Merlin's eyes, by passion and emotion, by hunger, by gold and blue and black, and it _hurt_ , this soul-deep _want_ , making his heart beat in a staccato rhythm, his cock throbbing in harmony.

"It could've been _you_ ," Merlin repeated. "Every night. Not some stupid dream. You could've rolled me against the wall and fucked me. Pushed me down, driven me into the cot. That time in the showers when everyone bloody well left and it were only us two. Could've dipped into the woods past the field when no one was looking, pulled us off against a tree. Anytime, Arthur. You could've _had_ me.

"You can't stand hearing me say your name when I'm sleeping? Could've shut me up --"

Arthur sagged against the door, not knowing how the two had gotten there -- had Merlin pushed him across the length of the room and he hadn't been aware of it? How did he even manage, because Arthur's legs wobbled as if he'd run a hundred kilometres and he didn't have any strength left.

He was _grateful_ for the door. It was the only thing holding him upright.

Merlin crashed his lips against Arthur's in a heady kiss that stole a gasp from Arthur's chest, to hitch his hips against Arthur's in a rough movement that rubbed their cocks together until the whole of the universe unfolded in the back of Arthur's shut eyes, the Big Bang spreading stars against a blanket of black.

"-- could've rubbed this --" Merlin reached down between them to rub Arthur's groin, stroking Arthur's erection through his trousers. Merlin's teeth scratched Arthur's throat. His tongue licked the line of Arthur's jaw.

"-- over my face, shoved your cock down my throat and fucked my mouth to shut me up --"

Arthur's knees buckled, and he wasn't sure if it was the filth coming from Merlin's lips or the swift, deft movements of long, graceful fingers unbuckling his belt, undoing his pants, and reaching into his briefs to wrap around him that did it.

"-- could've _had_ me --"

Merlin sank against Arthur as if he were trying to climb into Arthur's skin, his breath soft and desperate on Arthur's cheek like a lure, and Arthur chased after it until his teeth caught Merlin's lower lip, nibbling lightly before pressing in, hard, turning them both around with speed and strength that nearly sent them both to the ground. Arthur gasped when Merlin fought him, struggling to gain the upper hand. He caught those slim wrists, those delicate wrists, and held them away, pinned to the wall, whispering hot and hungry in Merlin's ear.

"I _will_ have you --"

All of Merlin's resistance broke, as if he'd been afraid that Arthur would push him away, as if he'd been fighting for this moment and was unwilling to let it go, and his breath caught in a quiet, relieved sob against Arthur's lips to hear Arthur's words.

"You'll have me," Arthur murmured, gentler now that Merlin wasn't fighting to get free of his hold. He reached up and stroked Merlin's cheek, raising his hand to brushed his fingers through the tangled mop of hair. He brought his hand down to rub a thumb over Merlin's lips -- soft, flushed lips -- before trailing to his throat. Arthur pressed a kiss in the hollow of Merlin's jaw beneath the lobe of his ear. "Everything. It's me. Under all this Directory bollocks, these roles we have to play-- under the bastard shoving you around, making you do _things_... It'll be me. Me. I'm the one wanting you. The one keeping you safe. The one fucking you. The one loving you --"

"Arthur," Merlin whispered, shattered, completely undone, a soft, little mewl escaping his lips, lips that Arthur couldn't help but kiss, gently at first, then more urgently, unable to help himself from grinding his bare cock against the rough of Merlin's trousers.

Merlin somehow loosened his belt, pulled open his pants, and there was a glorious, shocking, blinding moment of soft flesh rubbing against his cock. Arthur's hips stuttered. He gasped, biting Merlin's throat, when his long, soft fingers wrapped around both of them. There was a moment of bliss at the sensation, of impossible delight as Merlin brushed the tip of Arthur's cock, teasing the slit, spreading and mixing his pre-cum with Merlin's, slicking them up.

Arthur had wanted this moment to be perfect. He'd planned for it, just like he'd planned for their first kiss, only, that hadn't gone according to plan, and neither was this, but it was all right. Nothing could be more perfect than _Merlin._

"Arthur," Merlin whispered, broken, hoarse, his hand stroking both their lengths together, not quite fitting around them both. Arthur thrust into Merlin's hand, the disjointing sensation of rough calluses from Merlin's palm and the teasing silk of his cock electrifying every nerve ending on his body.

The mixture of jerky stroking, thrusting, kissing smoothed out to a slow, languid pace that worked for both of them, but it was too soon before Merlin's needy keen shattered the press of their lips together, the sound cutting through the overwhelming haze. It was the pulse of Merlin's cock against Arthur's that set off his orgasm, Merlin's hand that squeezed them both until every bit of come coated their shirts, ruining them.

Arthur didn't care. He sagged heavily against Merlin, both of them breathing hard in stuttering breaths that took a long time to calm.

"Don't think this means I forgive you for not telling me --"

Arthur shut him up with a kiss, a second, a third. When he pulled away, it was to see Merlin's eyes flutter open, still soft with post-sex daze.

"I'm still taking you out. On dates. Dinner. Movies. Anywhere you want."

 

ooOOoo

 

Two days later, Gwaine was still bitching about the Fuck Pool.

It wasn't so much a matter of "did you or didn't you" as of "when, exactly", because technically, Perceval had the time blocked off when the team had seen Merlin and Arthur stalk off to the dorms. Gwaine had the block right after that one, and it had been close to the hour...

The six of them -- Gwaine, Kay, Merlin, Arthur, Perceval, Bohrs -- were sitting around in the VIP lounge of the Dusseldorf Airport, waiting for the boarding call for the Paris flight. It was ten o'clock, German time, and Merlin's hands were warmed by the overpriced coffee that Arthur had bought him at the little breakfast nook, but he hadn't touched the huge cinnamon bun that Arthur had gotten, too, because they hadn't had time for breakfast before being rushed out to the airport. His stomach was in twisted, gnarled knots.

"Look, I doubt they were staring at the clock," Perceval said under his breath.

Merlin glanced at Arthur. He was in "uniform" -- they all were, dressed for their super-agent undercover roles. Perceval and Bohrs, as Arthur's official bodyguards, were in trousers and jackets, pressed shirts unbuttoned at the throat, comfortable and relaxed while simultaneously on alert. Gwaine and Kay were only slightly less well dressed, wearing trousers and button-downs with wool sweaters for warmth. Since they had been most likely identified as working for Arthur back at the Algiers fiasco, more as associates than bodyguards, they had a bit more flexibility in their wardrobe.

Arthur was in full business suit, wearing it with the panache of someone who knew how to wear it and the throw-away of someone who looked unfairly _gorgeous_ even when the jacket was a little rumpled and the tie a little askew. The suit was Armani or some such; Merlin didn't know which, although he was expected to know, if Arthur's quiet mumble that morning had been anything to go by -- "You're the one who's going to be undressing me, _Mer_ lin. You should know what brand names I wear."

They hadn't had much chance to talk, to sort out the details of _how_ they should be around each other, though Merlin couldn't help but grin at the thought of it anyway, his mind reverting back to every intimate moment they'd had, even though there were only a few. The show they'd put on in Algiers. The kiss in the desert. The dorm room with the angry kissing and frantic wanking, because they'd been too desperate for each other.

 _Were_ still desperate for each other.

As soon as Merlin had restored their dorm room on the Directory compound the way it had been -- including a re-mounted, but completely disconnected camera and repaired plaster that was left to look very much as if nothing had happened -- they had been swept up in a frantic swirl of activity that included measurements and fittings and last-minute instructions and details, neither one spending much time in each other's company until Bohrs and Perceval drove them to their hotel the night before.

They'd shared a suite at the Hilton, too tired to do anything but have a quick shower, sufficiently past exhaustion that there hadn't been any hesitation or shyness to strip down, to slip under the sheets of a plush King-sized bed that must have been doused with one of Gaius' sleeping droughts, because Merlin was unconscious the instant that his head touched the pillow. If there had been an argument over who should get the bed and who should sleep elsewhere, Merlin couldn't remember, just like he couldn't remember Arthur slipping under the blankets next to him.

They'd woken up to Perceval banging on the door to warn them that they were going to be late, the two of them a tangle of limbs, the curl of Merlin's body slotted neatly against Arthur's chest. Arthur had been groggy, drunk with sleep, his arm tightening around Merlin with every intention of keeping him there, and a semi-startled, still-confused Merlin would have been more than happy to stay just like that for several more hours, because there was nothing better than to sleep like this, on a plush bed with a warm Arthur wrapped around him.

Except Perceval had the bloody spare key to the room, and he'd poured a bucket of ice on them.

Compared to the rest of the group, Merlin was in a completely different fashion class. Oh, his clothes were of a better quality than they had been in Algiers, and there weren't any frays along the seams, but Merlin might as well have been _starkers_ , because his clothes were a little on the tight side.

Comfortable, though.

Gwaine's wolf whistle to see Merlin leave the hotel room had been enough to draw a territorial growl from Arthur, which had made Gwaine's grin spread even wider. He'd teased, "Good, good. I see that we're already in character."

"Too early," Merlin had mumbled, still sleepy, squeezing past Gwaine; Gwaine had made a grab for Merlin's arse right then. If it hadn't been for Perceval, Arthur might have shot Gwaine with the gun he'd put in the small of his back.

Most of his new wardrobe included jeans and shirts much like the dark jeans slung low on his hips and the long-sleeve V-neck shirt that he was wearing now, a leather jacket tucked in the wedge of his seat that Arthur disapproved of, because it was "too bulky", and promptly promised -- or rather, declared -- that he'd take Merlin shopping for a new one when they returned to London.

 _"So I'm to be a kept man?"_ Merlin had asked.

Arthur had raised a brow, pursed his lips, and nodded. _"Well, yes. Absolutely."_

Beside him, Arthur was reading the paper, the business section of a German-language newspaper that Arthur was actually _reading_ , and not just staring at blindly, or using it as a shield against Perceval and Gwaine's bickering.

"Look, would it help if I split the pot with you?" Perceval asked, exasperated.

"I won it fair and square. I'd feel better if you hand it all over and admit you cheated," Gwaine grunted.

"How could I cheat, exactly? You're the one who went to waylay them, buying yourself some time --"

Arthur's lips curled into a small, smirk, but he didn't lower the newspaper.

Merlin leaned his head against the back of the overstuffed chair, staring at the ceiling for several long minutes before twisting around. He tucked his legs under him, draped his arm on the edge and used it as a pillow. He propped his coffee on his thigh and heard the crinkle of the paper wrap around the cinnamon bun where it was very nearly crushed under his hip.

The rest of the team had gone on ahead on separate routes. Geraint and Galahad had left with Owain and Lance to set up the house, and Leon had taken a late-night flight to London so that he could escort Morgana. It had been the only way that Leon would even _consider_ not blowing the mission in the first place.

Telling Leon that Morgana was being pulled into the operation had been tantamount to beating an unexploded mine with a sledgehammer. Once Leon had run out of threats, Arthur had very gently told him, _"You think I'd risk my sister? That I'd let the Directory set up a protection detail for her? No. Take who you need and do what you need to. Keep her safe."_

Merlin hadn't doubted for one second that Arthur would readily drop the mission in an instant if he needed to, if only to protect Morgana.

Arthur put down his paper and stroked Merlin's hair, his fingers gentle except when he was tugging Merlin's hair. It felt nice, natural, as if Arthur did it all the time, and maybe he would have, because he was a tactile sort of person except when he was trying not to cross the line of propriety.

 _Thank fuck_ that line didn't exist anymore. Arthur and Merlin might have had only shared a few hasty kisses and one quick rub between them since Merlin had learned that there were no rules and regulations standing in the way, but it was all right. Every glance he caught Arthur sending his way was full of promises of more.

It was the _more_ that had Merlin grinning with anticipation every time he thought about it. Like now.

Arthur's hand drifted lower.

Gwaine shot Merlin a small smirk, and Merlin wanted to snarl, _aw, it's just for show_ , except it wasn't.

Merlin shivered, closing his eyes, remembering what Arthur had told him that morning, right before they'd left the hotel room. _"Whatever happens, this thing between us? It's real, Merlin. Never forget that."_

"Tired?" Arthur asked, his hand slipping down to Merlin's neck.

"A little bit. Would've liked a lie-in."

Arthur glanced toward Perceval, who shrugged. "Yes, so would I."

They weren't alone in the VIP lounge. There was a large man in a pale grey suit that looked custom made just to fit his wide girth. There was someone else who might be an aging rock star or a retired model, if the big designer glasses covering half of his face and the ridiculous amount of bling was any indication. There was a dark-haired woman, primly dressed in a pantsuit and a blouse with a few more frills to it than was strictly necessary.

Most of the business-class/first-class seats were taken up by the six of them, and there would be at least a few more people in their section. Any one of them could be a spy. Merlin barely kept from rolling his eyes. The Directory had made him paranoid.

"You should eat," Arthur said, flicking his newspaper up again, but he kept his free hand on Merlin's neck.

Merlin couldn't exactly say that _this whole thing has me tied up in knots -- I mean, we're going to be going after Aredian!_ , not in public, and instead said, "On the plane. I'm saving it."

"They'll feed us on the plane, love," Arthur said.

Two more people entered the VIP lounge, a young couple, the blonde woman laughing at some sort of joke, but the laughter faded when she looked in their direction. She made a sound of disapproval, elbowing her partner. The tall, broad-shouldered bloke could've been a footie star, and his big, cheeky smile fell into a flat line when he saw Merlin and Arthur.

It couldn't have been recognition; because there was no way that the NWO or anyone else could have sent their spies to this specific airport at this specific time for this specific flight to keep an eye on them. At least, Merlin didn't think so. He watched them as they moved to the seats as far away as possible.

Their whispers were loud enough to carry through the lounge, but not loud enough to make out the words.

Merlin ignored them, and Arthur didn't seem perturbed, because his fingers continued to stroke his neck. "I thought the flight wasn't long enough for that."

"First class comes with perks," Arthur said. He took his hand away to flip the page and fold the paper. He flicked a piece of invisible lint from his trousers before reaching for the cup of black coffee he'd gotten for himself at the kiosk. He sipped it, left it on the table, and leaned back again, his hand settling on Merlin's hair again.

Merlin closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation, unable to help the small smile on his lips.

It was going to get worse, he knew. Worse, or better, depending on the situation. Worse, because of the roles they were going to have to play. Better, because they could be together. And worse, again, because the lines would get blurred, and Merlin didn't want to think about that. For now, all he felt was the warmth of Arthur's hand on him, and the bliss that came with it.

"We're going to have to talk, you know," Merlin said softly. Arthur's fingers stretched, scratching lightly where the small hairs curled on the back of his neck.

"We will," Arthur said.

That was all the promise Merlin needed. He didn't push for _when_ , however much that he wanted to, because he knew he was impatient, and he knew that pushing when neither one of them had any idea how soon the circumstances would change to allow them to have a quiet conversation was useless and frustrating. Instead, he stayed the way he was, letting Arthur's fingers lull him somewhere between completely relaxed and nearly unconscious.

He couldn't have closed his eyes for more than a few minutes before a garbled announcement came over the intercom. Merlin jerked out of whatever state he'd been in, half-surprised, immediately soothed by Arthur's fingers running his hands through his hair. Merlin sat up slowly, careful of the coffee that was cooling in his hand, and looked around for a clock. "What time is it?"

Arthur glanced at his watch. "We'll be boarding soon."

Merlin nodded and put his cup on the table. He stood up and stepped around Arthur's legs when Arthur grabbed his wrist. It wasn't rough, but it was snake-bite quick, and Merlin slipped, nearly falling into Arthur's lap.

"Where are you going?" Arthur didn't look up from his newspaper.

"Uh. The loo," Merlin said. Arthur's grip slackened, lingering a moment to run his thumb over the inside of Merlin's wrist, and finally, he let go.

"I'll go with him," Gwaine said, getting up. Arthur nodded once, again, apparently absorbed in whatever was going on in the stock market these days, the only sign of what he thought of that idea being the slightest tightening around his mouth.

They'd talked about this on the drive to the airport -- or rather, Arthur had done the talking, and the rest of them had agreed. This was no different than any other military operation on enemy ground -- none of them were to go anywhere alone, even if it was to the loo. Just because Arthur was important enough to have bodyguards, it didn't mean that Arthur wouldn't have them watching out for Merlin, too, particularly considering the events in Algiers.

The Directory had written up a slightly convoluted background for Arthur -- superior military service, if one could claim _that_ after several incidents of insubordination, disobeying direct orders, even striking a superior officer. There were enough citations in there -- exemplary bravery, distinguished service, acts of gallantry under fire -- to explain his current rank of Captain, and enough complaints to support Uther Pendragon's ire that his only son had never been promoted above his current commission.

A commission that ended months prior by mutual agreement between the British Army and Arthur Pendragon, a barely-there honourable discharge that kept the Pendragon's name pristine only as a favour to Uther.

Merlin remembered how Arthur had groaned to read that part of his cover. At least Arthur's background was easy to remember -- _everyone's_ background was easy to remember, because they wouldn't have to fudge their association to Arthur or make up missions. As far as the team was concerned, they were still a team, with the only major changes being that the team was no longer code-named Excalibur, but Redcaps; they didn't have red scarves, but a red feather in their hardcaps when they were on missions; and that they were all discharged from service anywhere from a year to only weeks prior before becoming employed at Pendragon Consulting.

Kay had left under the cloud of facing a court martial for assault, while Gwaine's habit of showing up for work drunk as a skunk had handed him his papers. Bohrs and Perceval were angels by comparison.

Part of their cover, to explain their disappearance from the public eye, was the double-edged sword of Arthur's recent appearance at the party in Algiers. The other part was Merlin.

Both had only fed Uther Pendragon's disgust, on the grounds that Arthur was neglecting the family business and the suspicion that he was doing something underhanded when it came to the company. The Directory had seeded the rumour mill with whispers that someone had cracked the code of their newest top-secret-not-so-top-secret-anymore military communications system -- which was at least true -- resulting in the loss of a multimillion deal for Pendragon Consulting, forcing them back to the drawing board, and that the person who had cracked it was some little pissant of a systems engineer who had been seen in his son's company.

Merlin winced inwardly. As if Uther Pendragon needed any reminders of Merlin's interference at the war games, breaking the communications system he'd hoped to sell to the military, or an excuse to hate Merlin's guts.

Gwaine headed into the bathroom ahead of Merlin, checking it out before waving Merlin inside. It was something Merlin was going to have to get used to -- having to wait for other people to verify the safety of a room, a bathroom, a car -- before he could do anything.

Gwaine had the good manners to be silent -- even if he were checking himself in the mirror, muttering under his breath about needing to let his hair grow out -- and didn't speak until Merlin was at the sink, washing his hands. "So, are you seriously telling me you didn't check the time when you were, you know --"

"Just split the pot with Perceval," Merlin said, shaking out his hands, spraying droplets into the sink. He elbowed the hot-air blower to dry his hands and stood there, too close to the noisy stream to hear Gwaine's response. "What?"

"I said, I won that pot, I should --"

Gwaine cut himself off when the bathroom door opened, turning around to see who it was, standing with his arms loose at his side, his posture completely relaxed. Merlin wasn't fooled; for all of Gwaine's teasing, for all his mockery, for all that they all knew that everyone on the team could take care of themselves, they had a role to play, dangerous as it was, because what they were doing _mattered_ , even if they didn't understand it. Not yet.

It was the man, the half of the laughing couple that had turned sour when they saw the way Arthur had been petting Merlin, the pair muttering under their breath and shooting glances in their direction in the very not-liberal-minded way of people who were spoiled and self-absorbed. He stopped as the door shut behind him, glancing at Gwaine the way people dismissed those who weren't important, and glared at Merlin with distaste.

And just stood there.

Merlin rubbed his hands together, pretending that everything was all right, because Merlin-the-code-cracker was a little bit clueless when it came to personal safety and security, and left Gwaine to handle the situation. The best thing he could do was act like Merlin-the-code-cracker. Smart, but a bit of an idiot, like Arthur had said in Algiers.

"So how long is the flight again? I weren't really listening when Arthur said."

"A couple of hours, Merlin," Gwaine said, his tone easy and casual, as if he weren't in a stare-down with a man bigger than he was. Not nearly as big as Perceval, though.

"They have breakfast, yeah? Arthur said --"

"He's probably right," Gwaine said.

"I mean, it's such a short hop, I didn't think they would. They don't, you know, in second-class," Merlin said. He gave up trying to get his hands dry under the blower and wiped them on his jeans instead, stopping in front of the mirror to do something about his hair. It was still short enough that Arthur's finger-brushing couldn't do much damage, but long enough that it looked like messy bed-head right now. He ran his hands through it, trying to sort something out of the disaster, and gave up when all he could manage was spiky chaos.

In the mirror, Gwaine and the lumbering hulk were still staring at each other.

"I remember, mate. You don't have to worry about that anymore, you know?"

"I just hope the food's better," Merlin said, glancing in Gwaine's direction in the mirror. There was a basket of toiletries -- small bottles of aftershave, shaving cream, toothpaste, toothbrushes, all in little, complimentary packages. He cracked one bottle of hand lotion open, jerking his head back in disgust, because it smelled like rotten fruit.

"Doesn't compare to the slop they serve in economy," Gwaine said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Get an actual plate with food instead of those little partitioned trays with bite-sized everything that tastes as if they squirted it on with a tube. Real utensils too, not that silly spork nonsense either."

"I wonder if they'll have eggs," Merlin said, picking up another bottle. It was mouthwash. He breathed out into his cupped palm and sniffed. He smelled coffee. He shoved the little bottle in his pocket for later. "Do you think they'll have eggs?"

"Scrambled eggs, probably. Maybe some of that Canadian bacon, but I think that's just to flights to Canada, though."

"What about French toast?" Merlin asked. He rummaged through the basket some more and found a condom wrapper so old, Merlin wasn't even tempted to try it. Gwaine hadn't given him any sign that he wanted Merlin out of there; if anything, it was more as if he wanted Merlin to linger as much as possible to see what the other man would do.

"Might be waffles," Gwaine said.

Merlin held up some shoe polish and a soft cloth. He held it up even though he knew Gwaine wasn't paying attention to him.. "Really? Who uses this stuff?"

The bathroom door opened again, and this time it was Kay, swinging the door wide with the caution of someone checking things out and making certain no one was hiding behind it to jump him. He made eye contact with Gwaine, the two exchanging a nod. Gwaine turned away from the wannabe footie player to look at Merlin, gesturing with his hand.

"Come on, let's go," Gwaine said, his voice calm and even.

"What?" Merlin snapped away from the reflection, taking in Gwaine, the footie player, and Kay as if seeing them all for the first time, but still not understanding what was going on. "Um. Okay."

He walked away from the sink, sidled past the man, flinching a little when Merlin heard him say, "Fucking twink." Merlin gulped and scrambled past, feeling Kay's hand on his shoulder to guide him through as he walked out. He glanced over his shoulder at Gwaine, but the man only brushed his shoulder -- instead of jamming it like he'd intended -- and headed for the urinals, and Gwaine joined them, letting the door shut behind him.

Merlin spared a glance for the man's girlfriend, but she was engrossed in a magazine. Arthur, however, wasn't in his seat, and Merlin panicked, looking around wildly. He didn't relax from the adrenaline surge until he spotted Arthur in the corner between the ugly plastic potted plant masquerading as a palm tree and an empty courtesy desk with all the business amenities a working traveler would want. Perceval stood between him and everyone else, his back to Arthur, his hands clasped in front of him in a very subtle hint of _fuck off_. Arthur paced back and forth, holding his cell phone against his ear.

He wasn't doing much talking, but his expression was severe, with the pinch in between his brows that Merlin well knew meant the shit was about to hit the fan, or it was about to come down on them.

Bohrs was sitting in the armchair across from where Arthur and Merlin had been, dog-guarding Arthur's briefcase and Merlin's backpack. Merlin sat down, picking up his coffee, drinking the cool dregs at the bottom and wishing for a Starbucks latte to wash the vile taste from his tongue. He watched Arthur for a couple of seconds before making eye contact with Bohrs, tilting his head slightly in question.

Bohrs shook his head slightly in the negative. He didn't know what was going on.

Merlin pulled on his leather jacket, fumbling through the pockets until he found his cell phone. He kept it hidden in his lap, but when he checked, there weren't any messages.

Maybe not on his cell phone.

Merlin reached into his backpack -- it was a beat-up army surplus rucksack that looked like it might have been dipped in a vat of acid at some point, with every edge of it fraying, the shoulder straps threatening to snap at any moment (and something else Arthur wanted to replace when they were back in London) -- and pulled out a sleek, shiny netbook with an inky black cover, prying it open.

He hadn't had the time to finish configuring it with a new operating system and tightened security protocols, or even a network configuration that would be virtually uncrackable, but he had managed to tweak it enough that it could boot up at a fraction of the time it normally took. It only took a couple of commands through the prompt to bypass the expensive airport internet fees to download his email.

There was something from Freya; he didn't open it, saving it for the airplane. A couple of emails from Will, one from his Mum. Some more from ghost accounts the Directory set up to give his cover story some padding, and it looked like there was an arms dealer trying to lure him away from Arthur -- the date on it was a few days after Algiers.

He was going to have to show that one to Arthur, later. He might get a good laugh out of it.

There wasn't anything alarming, nothing in code, nothing from the alert accounts.

Merlin frowned slightly, staring the screen. He nearly jumped out of his skin by the simultaneous shrieking announcement that their flight had started to board for business class, and by the clamp of Arthur's hand on his shoulder.

"Fix this," Arthur said curtly, shoving his cell phone into Merlin's hand. Merlin watched Arthur as he rounded the chairs and sat down, nonplussed and unhurried. The other people in the VIP lounge packed up their belongings and queued out the door to for the priority seating. The big rugby player from the bathroom joined his girlfriend, and hastened out; the aged rockstar/past-due model poured himself from his chair; and there was a loud thump as a businessman dropped his briefcase. It cracked open, several folders spilling out. The man groaned in frustration, knelt heavily on one knee, and gathered the papers in a messy pile.

Merlin glanced at Arthur's phone, thumbing the display on. There was a text message open, the send-to section listing every member of the team, including the ones who were right here with them.

_Arms dlr hired Valiant 4 scrty. Need 2 tk hm out bfr tonite. Waitng on mr data._

Merlin barely managed to swallow a startled "What!", turning his wide-eyed, raised-eyebrow glance in Arthur's direction into something a little less alarmed and more on the amused side. "You do this on purpose to keep me busy, don't you?"

" _Mer_ lin," Arthur said with a slow, impatient drawl. He shifted in his seat to watch him and gestured with his hand to hurry up and get on with it before his eyes drifted up toward something at the top of Merlin's head. "What did you do to your hair?"

Merlin rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but run a hand through his hair, messing up what he'd smoothed down in the bathroom.

"And hurry up," Arthur said, taking the netbook from Merlin's lap to shove it into Merlin's backpack. Gwaine picked it up and buckled the loose latches, shouldering it.

"Yeah, yeah," Merlin said, holding down the pound key and typing in a long code using the numeric pad, sending the text message to every member of the team under a Merlin-style encryption.

 

ooOOoo

 

Arthur wanted nothing more at the moment than to stretch out on a couch with Merlin next to him, leaning against his side. Or to curl up next to Merlin under the heavy down comforter on his bed, and marvel how someone with so many sharp edges could be so soft and pliable, fitting against Arthur in an impossible, perfect way. He wanted to be _with_ Merlin, to explore the very fragile ground of this very new thing between them, to learn aspects about Merlin that Merlin-the-soldier and Merlin-the-friend would never have shown him.

Until now.

He was shockingly malleable when he was sleepy. Affable, soppy, even endearing. Arthur would never have dared to pet Merlin the way he had in the VIP lounge -- he didn't even know if Merlin liked to be touched that way, considering how touch-adverse he was. Except Arthur had been wrong about that. Merlin wasn't touch-adverse. He was _sensitive_ , positively leaning into Arthur's touch the way a cat would, shifting his body to get more of it.

Arthur craved to keep touching Merlin, to find out where Merlin would be most responsive, where Merlin liked it best, but he settled for running his fingers through the soft black hair that would need a trim soon, to at least style it into something a bit better than the mop it was threatening to grow into. He wanted to _touch_ , to pull Merlin into his lap --

But, instead, Arthur was working.

While Merlin tapped away on his netbook, bemoaning that he hadn't been allowed to bring his tools onto the plane, relegated to the dull task of doing what he could with the software, Arthur was flipping through the documentation that his father had forwarded on to him by way of Bayard. He'd kept up with the business as much as he could while he was on the base, but now, it was total immersion time, because there was a lot of information he had missed out on, that he would always miss out on, until he was back in London proper, taking his position with the company.

In the package that Uther had sent along, there were several sealed envelopes with Uther's signature across the lip. This wasn't a surprise; Uther would sometimes put together packages for Morgana or for Arthur -- data that wasn't on the Pendragon server, that no one was privy to, because he'd used his contacts, both official and unofficial, to obtain them. While the file folders contained information that Arthur was already aware of, the sealed folders were specific to the role Arthur was going to have to play in Paris.

It was a list of people he needed to speak to, what topics to broach, what personal details he could pepper into the conversation to get on their good side, and, failing that, what he could use to blackmail -- no, the proper business term was _coerce_ , or even the more politically correct, _convince_ \-- them into the agreement that Uther wanted. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Until the last envelope, which contained sheets and sheets of surveillance reports that Arthur had already read, back on the Directory's compound, about Jonathan Aredian.

None of the data was particularly new.

Before he could wonder why Uther had his hands on this information, he noticed that the signature that had been scrawled across the sealed lip of the envelope wasn't Uther Pendragon's, but Olaf Niedermann's, and that there was MI-5 coding in the top right corner of most of the documents. Arthur wondered if this was Olaf's way of apologizing for nearly getting Arthur killed in the Edwin Muirden fiasco, and an attempt to butter him up _again_ , in preparation for yet another spiel for Arthur to join MI-5 when he was done with the Directory's affairs.

An USB drive slipped out of the envelope. It wasn't anything special to look at, except for the fact that it came from Olaf, and Arthur was suddenly very suspicious of anything that Olaf sent him. He took another look at the information sheets about Aredian, noted subtle differences including an updated list of known associates -- none of the names were anyone that Arthur was personally familiar with, though he had been briefed on their backgrounds -- and a tabulated inventory (mostly based on guesswork) of the most recent arms trade Aredian had "facilitated".

Arthur raised a brow.

 _Now_ , he understood why Uther was being so cooperative with MI-5 and with the Directory where it concerned involving Pendragon Consulting in the whole NWO affair.

There had been a time when Arthur wondered what, exactly, it was that Bayard was holding over Uther's head, since Uther never did anything that didn't profit him -- or the company -- directly. Either Bayard was holding Uther in a submission hold that Uther didn't tap out of until he was nearly unconscious, or had turned him into an agreeable sort using hypnosis, but either way, now, Arthur had his answer.

Most of the weaponry that Aredian was "facilitating" by direct acquisition and trade was part of the Pendragon arsenal. Somehow, Pendragon weaponry and technology was ending up in the NWO's hands, and not only was Pendragon Consulting not profiting from it, there was, by association, quite a bit of political pressure that amounted to _what are you doing about it_ that translated into damage control for events and circumstances that were -- most likely -- out of the company's control. Arthur made a mental note to speak to Morgana about it -- were the shipments being hijacked before they were received by the buyer's signatory, or after? How many loads had gone missing as a result of the thefts? And why hadn't Arthur been told about it?

He understood the need to keep this sort of thing quiet, but for Arthur to be as completely out of the loop as he was now, that was just ridiculous.

Arthur glanced at the USB in his hand. It was a 4.0GB thumb drive. He considered plugging it into his laptop, but, since it was coming from Olaf...

"Merlin."

Merlin made a soft sound next to him.

If there was one downside to being seated in business class, it was that the chairs were too wide, with a fixed armrest that wouldn't lift, separating the one from the other. Merlin was leaning in what Arthur considered to be _the wrong direction_ , his elbow on the armrest, his face propped up in his hand, his forehead against the window. His left hand was on the keyboard of his netbook -- which Merlin had already cracked to remove the Directory bugs -- and it looked as if he were in the middle of a bit of programming, because the cursor was blinking at the end of a long line of code that was a solid block of the letter "a".

Arthur shook his head. He reached over and lifted Merlin's pinkie finger from the keyboard. Merlin didn't move.

It was a very small smirk that touched Arthur's lips at that moment, and he took Merlin in for the first time since they left Germany.

Merlin's long legs were stretched out in front of him, tucked beneath Bohrs' seat, loose and limber and sprawled. The business class seats weren't that large -- Perceval, behind them, had complained about the shoulder width when he sat down -- but Merlin was dwarfed in his seat, with more than enough wriggle room to make himself comfortable. The long sleeves of his shirt had been pushed up halfway up his forearms, and the hem of it, which he hadn't tucked in, was hitched up, showing a bare sliver of smooth flesh. The Vee of his shirt was pulled askew, and there was nothing that Arthur would like more than to crouch down over Merlin and lick that delicious collarbone.

Instead, Arthur moved his hand from Merlin's pinkie finger and slid it up the gap of Merlin's shirt.

He was almost dizzy with delight that he could touch Merlin like this now. It would be better if Merlin were awake, though.

His fingers grazed the bottom of Merlin's tattoo, and Arthur was careful not to lift the shirt more than that, not wanting anyone to see it. It was _his_ tattoo, just like Merlin was _his_ , and he claimed rights to seeing the tattoo up close and proper, to see just what it was that Merlin had chosen to get inked on his skin. Arthur had gotten glimpses of it -- in the shower, when Merlin changed out of his clothes, but had never had a chance to really _look_ the way he wanted to see it, with Merlin naked under him, put on display for no one else but him.

"Don't start something you can't finish," Merlin mumbled sleepily, his head still propped up on his chin, his eyes open, but only slightly, the bright blue barely visible through the curtain of long, sultry eyelashes.

"Oh, I'll finish it," Arthur said with a smirk, drawing his hand away, hooking his fingers along the hem of Merlin's jeans to tug lightly. Merlin grumbled, lowering his hand from his chin to stretch, which had the unfortunate -- or fortunate, depending on how one looked at it -- result of hiking Merlin's shirt high enough to give Arthur a heart-in-throat glimpse of a line of fine, soft hair marking a line from his navel.

"What do you want?"

"Is that any way to speak to me?" Arthur smirked and raised a brow.

"I was having a nice dream," Merlin complained.

"Couldn't have been that nice," Arthur remarked. "I didn't hear any moaning. I definitely didn't hear my name."

Merlin's cheeks coloured beautifully, but at least he was more awake now. Arthur held the thumb drive in the air between them. "Open this."

Merlin, the cheeky git, slid the catch on the side of the thumb drive, and pushed the USB male port out. Then he gave Arthur a big, bright grin. "Here you go."

" _Mer_ lin," Arthur said warningly, struggling not to smirk.

Merlin's smile faded and he took the thumb drive, his fingers lingering when Arthur didn't release it immediately. They shared a look, deep and hot and intense, and Merlin shifted in his seat and muttered, "Right. Opening it."

He tugged the thumb drive out of Arthur's hands, saved the programming, and hit a series of keys too fast for Arthur to follow, and returned to the operating system. He paid attention to what Merlin was doing only long enough to see him plug in the thumb drive -- thankfully, the little netbook didn't die on the spot -- and to hear him groan at the pop-up screen, which started scrolling vertical symbols like a scene out of **Matrix**.

Merlin rubbed his face with both hands, brushed them through his hair, and let out another groan -- not one that Arthur ever wanted to hear when it was just the two of them together -- before sitting up straighter and cracking his fingers.

Arthur finished going through the paperwork, putting nearly everything away the way they had arrived to him, with exception of the tears along the ends of the envelopes. He locked his briefcase, put it aside, and flipped through the usual business papers -- quarter projections, financials, investor reports -- that would bore anyone to tears, but which were also publically available, if someone knew how to get them.

The stewardess came and went, leaving breakfast behind; Arthur reached over, sliding his hand up Merlin's back, stroking Merlin's neck with his fingers until he had Merlin's attention. Merlin didn't quite turn his head to look at Arthur, but he did the next best thing when he was concentrating on his work -- he half-turned his head, eyes still glued to the screen, and raised both brows, making a little noise that was a questioning "Um?"

"Do you want breakfast now or later?" It wasn't a question of whether he wanted the food or not -- he would eat, because if Arthur had learned anything working with the Directory's sorcerers, it was that sorcerers needed fuel if they were to keep up their magic for something drawn out. He didn't know how it worked for Merlin -- apparently no two sorcerers were alike -- but Merlin's nagging habit of forgetting to eat was something Arthur was going to have to watch for now.

Merlin yanked his attention from the netbook with a small noise that Arthur thought sounded like Velcro tearing, saw the tray on Arthur's little table, and returned to work. "Oh. Um. Nnnrgh. Almost done."

Merlin's "almost done" could be mean anything from five minutes to five hours, but this time, Arthur gave Merlin the benefit of the doubt and shook his head at the stewardess, giving her his bets smile. "Could you keep his plate warm for fifteen minutes?"

"Certainly, sir," the stewardess said, her eyes crinkling when she smiled a _you two are adorable_ smile, and she headed up the aisle to do just that.

Arthur watched Merlin for a moment, absorbing the little downturn of the corner of his lips when he was concentrating, the pinch of his brow, the way one would arch when he was calculating, the way he would suck his lower lip into his mouth and chew when he was frustrated, but would never admit it. His shoulders rounded a little, he leaned forward in his chair, uncomfortable, because business class seats weren't really meant for business, never mind the sort of work that Merlin was doing, that only he could do. Idly, Arthur thought he should sell his current flat and buy a bigger house, one with a workroom large enough for both of them, just so that Arthur could keep an eye on Merlin and drag him out when he was shutting out the rest of the world the way he was shutting the rest of the world now.

Arthur let him work.

Breakfast was scrambled eggs, a little on the watery side, overcooked sausages in a tomato sauce that was actually quite good, a warmed bun that disintegrated when Arthur spread the creamed butter, and a fruit cup with a fresh, exotic selection that was a little heavy on the kiwi and grapes and didn't have enough strawberries for his liking. The coffee was nice and strong enough to get up and slap someone, and he half wished that it wasn't a metaphor, because the over-the-shoulder glances he was getting from the man with the rugby build sitting a row ahead and an aisle over were starting to get aggravating.

It was all that Arthur could do not to stare back. He was playing the role of an insolent, spoilt arse -- it was his bodyguards' responsibility to take care of any threats while he stepped over the bodies of the stupid fucks who tried to do him any harm.

He hadn't missed how the couple had stared at them when they entered the VIP lounge -- it wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last, when someone would stare and make comments. He was used to it, even if he didn't like it, but there wasn't much that he could do except bash their heads in when they tried to have a go at him.

Or at Merlin. At Gwaine. At Perceval -- though Arthur was wondering how, exactly, he'd missed Perceval.

What he had not missed was how the rugby player had gone into the bathroom after Merlin and Gwaine. The look on his face hadn't been one of disgust, then, but determination and intent, both of which had been aborted by Gwaine. That act -- that sneering, looking-down-their-noses act that they'd played when they walked into the VIP lounge -- it was a cover for something else. He didn't know who the man was, who he worked for, or how they ended up on their flight, but he was sure that Bayard had leaked the information somehow, and that the man was either NWO, or an agent working for an arms dealer who wanted to get their hands on Merlin.

Arthur wanted to ask, _can you hack the airport's flight records and find out when those two bought their tickets_ , but Merlin was up to his elbows in work at the moment. It seemed that Gwaine had the same idea, because he went to the front to use the bathrooms, chatting it up with a stewardess, and checking the passenger list. A passenger list that the stewardess had _given_ to him.

Arthur tried not to roll his eyes. Gwaine was taking to the spy business like a fish to water, a more suave James Bond than James Bond himself, if such a thing was possible. As long as he didn't fall in love with a girl (or another boy) who'd sell him out to the bad guys, they'd be fine.

He came back a few minutes later, draping his arms over the back of Arthur's seat, leaning down. "I was right. Booked their seats last night, paid premium, arrived this morning on a connecting flight from Prague. Their luggage didn't make it, and their carry-ons are all they've got."

"Their names?"

"Fuck if I can pronounce them," Gwaine muttered, gesturing with his hand. Arthur handed over his phone. He'd already taken the couple's photographs and forwarded them to Major Kilgarrah before the plane took off, but the names would have to wait until either Merlin finished with the thumb drive decryption or until they landed. "They're not being subtle."

"Not hardly," Arthur said, glancing at the names on the phone. Neither was familiar, and that meant either pseudonyms, or they were low enough on the proverbial totem pole that they were expendable if they failed at whatever it was that they were tasked to do. He gave Gwaine a curt nod, and Gwaine slid back into his seat.

The stewardess returned with Merlin's plate, giving Arthur a small smile and an inquiring raise of her brow. Arthur gestured for her to take his tray, leaving Merlin's on his little fold-out table for the time being.

"All right, I think I have..." Merlin paused, a hand raised over the keyboard, his lips pursing in a _wait, this isn't right_ moue, his brows knitting together in a thoughtful _no, this should work, give it a minute_ repose. Immediately, he pushed the netbook aside and reached into his backpack, pulling out the earphones to his iPod. "You're going to need these. There's a few videos and at least one embedded audio file somewhere in there, and -- is that breakfast?"

"Yes, Merlin," Arthur said, taking the netbook from Merlin and sliding the tray onto Merlin's table. "Now eat. When you're done, I have something I need you to do."

"I could --"

"Eat."

Arthur untangled the earbud cords and plugged it into the netbook, clicking through the electronic file that Olaf had sent. It was very much along the same lines as the other files he'd received from Olaf, organized in the same way, containing much of the same information he already had, including video clips of additional Armed Forces encounters with NWO associates. Except, now, the Americans weren't the only ones to have exchanged fire with them.

One video clip started in the aftermath of an attack on a Canadian Peacekeeper base in the desert, consisting more of a MASH unit than an attack or advance forces base. The jerky video was filming in the fading light of a smoky sunset, and the sky was a big blob of grey spilling out from the burning central building -- a central building that was coming down from the rafters not because of the run-of-the-mill orange-and-red fire, but from bright white and blue fire.

The fire was familiar. How many times had the Directory sorcerers flung something similar in his direction on the training fields?

There were other similar videos in the same section of the file, but on different bases: One under the British flag, and the other an aid station manned by the French. Beneath those were a list of other similar attacks observed to have occurred at both allied and rebel locations.

The NWO's people were equal-opportunity, it seemed. Arthur read the commentary beneath the videos and mentally mapped out the location of each attack. Between the dates and the locations, Arthur could only determine that the attacks were completely random, completely premeditated, and possibly the result of either inside information, or inside assistance. He clicked on a faded link and raised a brow when he skimmed the contents. It was a list of all the equipment that had gone "missing" -- officially reported as damaged or destroyed -- following the attacks on the allied bases.

The majority of the equipment that had gone missing was Pendragon equipment that had been shipped -- and delivered -- within two days of the fires.

"All right." Merlin wiped his hands on the wet napkin that came with the tray. Arthur glanced at his plate and nodded in approval to see that, for once, Merlin had eaten everything instead of only taking a couple of nibbles. "What was that thing you wanted me to do?"

Arthur gave him his phone without commentary, and returned to reading the documentation.

He was still reading when Merlin handed him back his phone -- shifting in his seat to lean over Arthur, slipping the phone into his inner jacket pocket with a whispered _"Sent,"_ disguised behind a kiss on his cheek. Arthur took Merlin's arm before he could slip away, holding him firmly in place.

As much as Arthur wanted to know how Merlin could send a message when they were well out of range of cell phone towers -- something to do with the plane's free wireless or the in-flight phones? -- Merlin's warm breath was teasing on his skin, a distraction that robbed him of words. It came with a flush of red to his cheeks, a small, self-sure smile, and a raised, inviting tilt of his head.

Arthur hated to do it, but instead of indulging, he plucked the earbuds out, shut the netbook, and shoved them at Merlin, who frowned and pouted. It was a very kissable pout, but Arthur gave himself some credit for being able to resist the lure. "Secure this."

Merlin sat back in his seat with a slight narrowing of his eyes. He unplugged the cable to the netbook, opened it up, and did whatever it was that he did to secure both the thumb drive and the computer itself, muttering under his breath, "Prat."

Arthur smirked.

The information on the attacks that Olaf had forwarded on hadn't been in the Directory's dossier -- and that could be because Bayard's people were unaware of it, were holding back, had judged it unimportant to Arthur's mission, or because there was some interdepartmental backstabbing going on. Either way, there were bits that were useful to Arthur, notably the presence of the CIA in Paris at the gala, and a thick file on the arms dealer's intermediate -- an intermediate who would be protected by Michael Valiant.

Arthur assumed that getting blackballed by Uther Pendragon could only be interpreted as a good reference for the people working on the shady side of the law, but no matter how Valiant got the job in the first place, it was going to be a problem for the team.

More importantly, to Merlin. Merlin's cover was simple. He had never been in the armed forces.

Valiant could undo that -- could wreck the mission from the start -- with a single word.

The phone call he'd received from Kilgarrah had amounted to _"This is a heads-up, only; we don't expect that you will need to do anything, but in the event that the situation becomes untenable, you should be prepared to act --"_

And, that sort of statement coming from The Dragon implied that he didn't think much of the Directory's ability to take care of the situation, and the subtext was either _"I've called in some reinforcements"_ or _"I expect you to look after this"_. Either way, it came down to Valiant being a problem, and a rather big one, if he happened to show up at the gala as someone's bodyguard. Fortunately, the man's employment was fairly recent, and the odds were good that he hadn't heard Merlin's name bandied about.

Yet.

Arthur was getting a headache from trying to sort out all the possible strategies and approaches for the many situations that could arise from this complete clusterfuck that was going to be their evening -- a gathering of some of the richest men and women engaging in dubiously legal and obviously illegal businesses, pandering to clients both old and new, keeping an eye on Morgana and Merlin, and being ready to take out Michael Valiant without somehow compromising anybody's cover.

Merlin nudged him gently. Arthur looked up. Merlin was holding a bottle of water in one hand, a blister pack of paracetamol in the other.

"Yeah," Arthur said softly, half-chuckling. "Could use it."

 

ooOOoo

 

The plane landed at De Gaulle without incident.

The same couldn't be said for trying to get out of the airport proper, though the initial delay was caused more because of the usual boarding gate gaffes and bottlenecks. The wait at the luggage carousel was compounded by the fact that a good quarter of the area was under construction, and that two different flights were, for some reason, being unloaded to the same location simultaneously, turning the next hour into something that was tantamount to a search and rescue expedition.

Arthur made no attempt to gather his luggage, stepping aside to answer his ringing phone under Bohrs' shadow while Perceval held Merlin back from the crowds despite Merlin's complaints -- _"But you're not going to know which bag is mine!"_ was answered by Kay's resigned, _"We'll get it, Merlin."_. It left Merlin standing around feeling rather useless and twitchy, because he wasn't used to sitting around and waiting for other people to take care of things for him. The weeks of training at the Directory's compound had definitely not prepared him for being moved around by a security force -- something that Arthur seemed perfectly comfortable with.

But then again, he _was_ Captain Prat.

There was no sign of the rugby thick-necked man and his girlfriend-accomplice-cover, but Gwaine had found out that the two of them had checked in after a connecting flight at the last minute and that their luggage wouldn't have made it to the plane anyway. Just because they weren't stuck with the rest of the passengers waiting for their bags -- and, according to Arthur, business class luggage would be the first off the plane -- didn't mean that they wouldn't be waiting somewhere on the other side of the airport, waiting for them there.

Merlin still didn't know what the man had been thinking, barging into the VIP bathroom in Germany. What had been the plan? To assault Merlin? To kidnap him? To -- for whatever other ridiculous reason that sprung to mind, there was no answer, because cornering someone on the other side of airport security seemed like a bollocks-type of approach, as far as Merlin was concerned. The stare-down had, quite obviously, tipped them (or at least Gwaine, who was the only one who should have been paying attention, anyway) off that something was about to happen.

Whatever it was.

Merlin sat down on a moulded plastic chair that was a garish colour of orange and shaped for a much-rounder arse than his own, digging through his backpack until he found his iPod. It was his actual iPod, with music and the like, and it had been a while since he'd had a chance to listen to anything that wasn't the monotonous drone of a self-styled Directory "professor". He flicked through the playlist, untangled the knot of wires from the earbuds -- there was some universal law that all cables had to be completely mangled, no matter how carefully they were twined and put away -- and plugged himself in.

Just one earbud, though. He wanted to pay attention.

Arthur stopped in front of him, putting down his briefcase, changing his phone from one ear to the other. He pinched the bridge of his nose, dropped his hand, and stood there, the muscle in his jaw twitching with metronome precision as he listened to the news. While he listened, he nudged his briefcase between Merlin's feet, turning away to respond to the person on the other end of the line.

"No, I don't think so." He paused. "It's possible."

Arthur checked his watch with a flick of his wrist, and again, that muscle in his jaw jumped, and a storm front moved in, dulling the bright of his eyes. "I'm not prepared -- No. You can't leave this --"

Kay returned with two valises; he went back to the luggage claim for the rest.

"You what?" Arthur asked, a little more vehemently than usual. "She -- for fuck's sake. Of course she's... No, wait. I don't have the specifications -- yes, I've worked on less -- Fine. All right. Leave it for now. They'll meet us there? And our equipment? You realize that this doesn't give us much time."

Kay and Gwaine came over a minute later, the rest of the luggage on a trolley. Bohrs and Perceval were trying not to look as if they were interested in the conversation Arthur was having while Gwaine and Kay stood around, arms crossed, wondering what the holdup was. The only person who could get away with openly listening to Arthur's conversation was Merlin, and that was only because Arthur's foot was actively rubbing Merlin's, and he was close enough for Merlin to overhear.

"All right," Arthur said, hanging up. His lips were pressed together in thought, and he stared at the screen of his phone until it went power-save dark, but before he could say anything, his phone vibrated, and a text appeared on the screen. He thumbed at the front button, and after reading it, his eyes narrowing in disgust.

"I have a meeting," Arthur said, looking down at Merlin, and when Merlin didn't react, he reached down to pop out the single earbud that was still in Merlin's ear.

"Ow."

"I said, I have a meeting to go to. You'll be going on to the house with Leon and Kay, all right?"

Merlin shrugged a shoulder, unconcerned. "Yeah, okay."

He didn't need to have a giant neon sign hanging over Arthur's head to know that Arthur didn't have a meeting to go to, and that there was something going on behind the scenes that the Directory couldn't handle on their own, or they wouldn't have called Arthur to begin with. He stood up, wrapping the earbuds around the iPod, and shivered when Arthur slipped his arm around his waist, tugging him close enough to kiss his cheek and simultaneously whisper, "Valiant."

Abruptly, Arthur let go, turning away to lead the charge out of the baggage claim. Perceval caught up to him easily, even walking a little ahead, nodding when Arthur directed him to the right door where the others were picking them up. Bohrs clipped Merlin's heels as they walked, and raised a brow to _hurry up already_.

Merlin could understand the urgency. He really could. If the disjointed bits of conversation and clench of Arthur's jaw had been any indication, then there was a high probability that the issue with Valiant was _pressing_ , in a _take care of him now or we will execute him_ sort of way. For one reason or another, the task had fallen to Arthur to deal with.

And Merlin didn't want to be split up. Arthur wouldn't be going alone; he would have Perceval, Bohrs, Gwaine and whoever else to back him up at the meet point wherever the operation was going to take place. It was bad enough that it would take place in _daylight_ when the team could be observed in action and possibly identified, but worse that Merlin wouldn't be around to help the team if they needed it.

He couldn't even complain about it. Not in public. Surely Arthur could come up with a plausible reason why he was taking Merlin with him to a business meeting...

The doors slid open, and Merlin walked into the fresh air of idling automobile exhaust and cigarette smoke. A few steps from the door, hugging the kerb, were two large, black, _extremely_ obnoxious SUVs, both of them Evoque Land Rovers that screamed _filthy rich, pretentious bastards_ to anyone who couldn't figure out for themselves who was inside.

The drivers' side doors opened on both; Lance was driving the second SUV. He opened the back of the first SUV and helped Kay load the luggage in. It was a tight fit. Leon walked over to Arthur, and the two shook hands; the combined background noise of jets roaring overhead, people shouting to be heard, and the low rumble of engines puttering past made it hard to eavesdrop on the conversation, so Merlin didn't even try. He stood around, rocking on his heels, clutching his backpack in one hand, the iPod in the other, and waited for everyone to sort themselves out, hoping that _someone_ was going to explain to him why he wasn't going along on the mission to remove Valiant as a problem.

Of them all, Merlin was the only one who didn't _know_ Valiant beyond their brief encounter at the war games, the only one who didn't have any personal involvement. He wished he could ask Arthur how he felt about it --

Leon nodded in acceptance at whatever Arthur had instructed. They shared a brief laugh -- Leon mouthed, _sorry_ , and opened the front passenger side door of the first SUV.

The first thing Merlin saw were the shoes. They were lovely, gorgeously designer peep-toe heels, with matte black leather and red soles. He still didn't know brand names, but he knew a weapon when he saw it, and those heels would not only turn a man with a foot fetish into a blubbering idiot, but they could be used to stab him while so incapacitated. A long, bare leg followed the shoe, and Merlin heard Arthur mutter, "Of _course_ she would be over-dressed to come pick us up."

Merlin didn't know about over-dressed. Definitely under-dressed. Morgana was wearing a red silk brocade dress that wrapped around her body like a second skin, hugging every curve; the hem of it was dangerously high and the neckline dangerously low. A necklace that was a snarl of gold chain and black pearl that hooked the eye and dragged it down her plunging cleavage.

It didn't do anything for Merlin, but he couldn't help but stare down that vast expanse of flesh for a second, more startled than mesmerized.

"I am not overdressed to pick you up," Morgana said, crossing the few steps to embrace Arthur and smear roasted-burgundy lipstick on his cheek. She used her thumb to wipe it away, and escaped Arthur's grasp to loop an arm through Merlin's. "I am overdressed to go _shopping_."

"Shopping?" Arthur raised an alarmed brow, glancing at Leon. Leon could only raise his arms in a helpless _I tried to reason with her, I did_ shrug. "Morgana, no. You're going to go back to the house right now. Do you hear me?"

"I see lips flapping, but I don't hear anything important coming out," Morgana said, her hand waving dismissively in the air. "While you are handling the business end of things, Merlin and I are going to find him something to wear for tonight's gala."

"Morgana --"

" _You_ have a tuxedo. Leon's suit is ready to be picked up. And Merlin, poor Merlin -- did he lock you up in the bedroom again?" Morgana asked, petting Merlin's arm reassuringly before reaching up to smooth down a curl of Merlin's hair. "You may prefer him naked, but I can assure you that there are several of Pendragon's clients who would not find that amusing in the least."

Merlin choked, half from the strangled laugh at the expression crossing Arthur's face, half from his own embarrassed sputter while trying to answer Morgana.

"He needs to be made pretty for you," Morgana said, and Merlin found his voice suddenly.

"Oi! I'm not a girl!"

"Yes, you are," Morgana said, and this time, it was Arthur's turn to choke with laughter, nodding in agreement. "A bit of colour to your cheeks, maybe a lovely sequined dress, something in blue, to bring out your eyes --"

"Oh, no, no, no! No one is putting me in a dress!"

"You might like it," Arthur said, tilting his head in consideration, the smug set of his lips hinting that he was picturing Merlin in a dress right now. " _I_ might like it."

Merlin's eyes went wide and round.

"I might too," Gwaine put in, holding up an apologetic hand at Arthur's warning glance.

"Absolutely not! I refuse. If any of you -- especially you, or you," Merlin said, pointing a finger at Morgana while simultaneously trying to free himself from her grasp, then pointing that same finger at Arthur, "Try to put me in a dress, we're done. I'm done! We'll be over! I'll break up --"

Merlin stammered to a stop when he saw the dangerous heat in Arthur's gaze, the set of his lips.

"I mean. Um."

Morgana, sensing that it would be best if she dove for cover _right now_ , let Merlin go and escaped to use Leon as shelter.

 _Traitor_ , Merlin wanted to shout after her. This was her fault; she'd started it.

"I could leave you here. Alone and stranded. With nothing but the clothes on your back," Arthur said, his voice low, his chin tucked down. His hands were in his trouser pockets, the set of his shoulders relaxed, but there was sheer menace radiating from him, as if he were an IED about to blow. He stepped forward, moving with the slow grace of a predator, and he was on Merlin in a few steps.

Merlin trembled, but didn't move, because he didn't think he would dare move in the first place, but, _fuck_ if Arthur wasn't bloody _hot_ right now.

"Do you want that?" Arthur asked, his gaze intent. Merlin tore his eyes away, staring down at the sidewalk. He shook his head. "I didn't hear you."

"Of course I don't want that," Merlin said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I was just joking around."

Arthur took his chin -- it was a little painful -- and forced him to look up. "We're done when I say we're done. It's not your decision to make. It's mine. Do you understand?"

Merlin tried to nod, but he couldn't move his head. He managed a squeaky "Yes" instead.

"If I want you in a dress, you'll put on a dress. If it's women's lingerie -- a frilly pink corset and garters and those little heels and what do you call it, the feather thing --"

"A boa?" Morgana supplied, ever helpful. Merlin shot a quick glance in her direction, and her expression was shrewd and amused, loving every minute of this little show they were putting on.

"-- yes, a boa. You will wear it, _Mer_ lin," Arthur said.

Merlin's brows rose, and he said, as evenly as he could manage, "Do you want me to pick up something like that on the way to the house?"

Arthur's lips quirked, but he managed not to break cover. Instead, he relaxed his grip at Merlin's jaw and slapped Merlin's cheek roughly. "For that sort of thing, _I_ will take you shopping, not Morgana."

"Okay," Merlin squeaked, and he sincerely hoped that Arthur was kidding. Cross-dressing was well and good, but it wasn't his kink. Fantasies and fetishes were one thing, but he was having a hard enough time not getting all hot and bothered by the act that they were putting on now. Arthur like this --

He bit his lower lip, trying not to think about it. His pants were already uncomfortable enough without getting turned on by a bossy Arthur.

Arthur checked his watch and stepped away. He turned to Morgana. "A tuxedo. Shoes. Whatever you think he needs. But that's it. After that, you're to go back to the house."

"Whatever I think he needs?" Morgana asked, her eyes gleaming with mischief. Arthur must have realized his mistake too late, because Merlin saw the flash of a wince cross his expression. "I can do that."

Arthur moved toward the second SUV, pausing only briefly to warn Leon and Kay, "You watch them."

Gwaine followed Arthur, pausing to give Merlin a grinning leer. "You in a dress. I'd pay to see that."

"Fuck off, Gwaine," Merlin muttered.

The others drove off, Arthur in the front seat with Lance, the rest of them in the back seat, leaving Merlin at Morgana's mercy.

"No point in us standing around here," Leon said, ushering them into the car. He helped Morgana into the front passenger seat, and Kay held the rear door, waiting for Merlin to get in.

"Sucks to be you, mate," Kay said.

"Fuck you too." Merlin glanced over his shoulder at him. He paused, frowning slightly -- was that the rugby player up the street -- before climbing into the car.

They were on a long stretch of highway heading into Paris proper before Morgana turned around to smirk at Merlin.

"So, you and Arthur?"

Merlin groaned inwardly, sinking in his seat. "Don't start, Morgana."

"No, actually, I'm very interested --"

"Leon, can't you control your woman?" Merlin tried not to think too much about the wail that nearly crept into his voice. If there was something that he was very much _not_ prepared for, it was answering Morgana's questions. He didn't even know if he had an answer to the question that she was asking. Yes, there _was_ a Merlin and Arthur, but what, exactly that entailed, Merlin wasn't quite sure yet.

Leon's eyes flicked in his direction in the rear view mirror, crinkling at the corners in amusement. "I'd rather take on a Howitzer tank with a straw and a few spitballs," Leon said.

"You could learn something from Leon, Merlin," Morgana said, her tone teasing -- but the way she was looking at Merlin, Merlin worried that there might be a hint of truth to her words. "What Arthur wants, Arthur gets. It runs in the family."

"Lovely," Merlin said, sinking down even more into his seat, wishing that he could disappear right now. He kicked the back of Leon's chair. "You're whipped, you know."

"Of course I am. But you're worse off, you know," Leon retorted.

"How's that?"

"You were whipped _ages_ ago. The minute you saw Arthur," Leon said. "Don't deny it. We've got proof."

"Proof?" Merlin sat up, alarmed.

"It's all right, Merlin," Morgana said after a moment. She reached into the back and patted Merlin's knee. "We won't use it against you."

"She means, _she_ won't use it against you. Not yet, anyway," Leon added. Morgana's grin was positively evil.

"I should've listened when Arthur warned me about you," Merlin muttered under his breath. He unwound the earbuds from his iPod, and pointedly ignored them all for the rest of the drive into Paris. He watched enviously as Kay pulled a lock box from under Morgana's seat and armed himself with a Sig Sauer.

There wouldn't be any guns for him, not while he was undercover. Even if he could conceivably hide a gun in this outfit, he wasn't supposed to be known for being able to use one.

There was a Louis Vuitton not far from the Arc de Triomphe, and Merlin didn't know how it was that Leon managed to find them a parking space, but they did. With Morgana in the lead and Leon and Kay bracketing them, Merlin had no choice but to follow, half-awed at the bright tiled floor, the chain-link façade that was in the famous Vuitton pattern, the posed mannequins with sleek black clothing piped in Vuitton golden-beige, the glass tables, the wooden box displays and the floating trunks, valises and purses.

"It doesn't look like they have anything for men," Merlin said, turning around and running right into Kay. Morgana grabbed his arm and pulled him in.

There was a man and two women working the floor; the three of them exchanged glances and raised a curious, somewhat disapproving frown. The clothes they were wearing probably cost more than Merlin's collective wardrobe from his _entire adult life_ , and their evaluating gazes went from Merlin to take in Morgana's expensive clothes and obvious flair. They went back to Merlin, comparing Morgana to Merlin's comparatively poor taste, and waffled between tossing him out right then and there and seeing whether this visit would be worth their while.

" _Bonjour, madame, messieurs_ ," said the man, a short, stout man who let his suit do the talking, hiding a slight paunch at his belly and the fact that he probably never worked out a day in his life. " _Je m'appelle Claude. Comment puis-je vous aider?_ "

" _Bonjour. Des vêtements pour le monsieur_ ," Morgana said in flawless French, gesturing with a hand in Merlin's direction, as if they needed any help figuring out who couldn't dress himself in the morning. " _Quelque chose formelle. Un tuxedo, peut-être?_ "

" _Certainement, madame. Suivez-moi,_ " Claude said, sounding as if it would be his pleasure to get the monstrosity that was Merlin out from public view. They were led to a semi-oval room, shaped more like a teardrop, with briefcases on the ledges, ties hanging from racks, a display of leather belts that was more like something belonging in an art gallery. There was a collection of suits to one side, arranged by gradient degree of shade, and, thankfully, no tuxedo was in sight.

"I don't see the tuxes," Merlin said.

Claude stood in front of Merlin and swept a hand toward the rooms at the rear. " _Venez avec moi, s'il vous plaît._ "

"Um." Merlin glanced at Morgana. He didn't want to go anywhere with the man. Kay retrieved Merlin's backpack -- the precious backpack with his Crack Box gaming console, the netbook he'd only started to configure that already contained top secret files, the thumb drive that Arthur had gotten from MI-5 -- and tucked it next to one of the leather chairs.

Morgana made shooing motions with her hand. "Go on, Merlin. He's going to measure you. You don't try on tuxedos here; they build one around you."

Trusting Morgana was a mistake that Merlin wasn't going to repeat.

He emerged from the rear room in a shaken, rumpled mess, wondering what the hell just happened. One minute, he was standing on a little platform, positioning his feet just so, stretching out his arms the way Claude told him to; the next, the man's hands were positively _everywhere_ , running a measuring tape in every possible angle on, down, up, sideways, leftways, rightways, counter-clockwise and at a precise ninety-one degrees below the equator. Merlin had the distinct feeling that he'd just been assaulted, but he wasn't a hundred percent sure, because there had been something prim and polite and professional about it, kind of like listening to a French prostitute swearing like a sailor while doing her business.

Not that Merlin had any experience with that.

"So?" Kay asked.

"I don't want to go back there again," Merlin warned. "Don't let him take me."

Morgana rolled her eyes.

" _Monsieur, nous sommes prêts pour vous,_ " Claude said appearing from nowhere to gesture over his shoulder, turning around to return to the back room.

Merlin whimpered. Morgana shoved him after Claude, and this time, she accompanied them. Merlin was relieved; it meant that someone could keep an eye on Claude. Merlin didn't trust him.

He really should have been keeping an eye on Morgana instead. Somewhere in the flurry of "Here, try this", "What's taking you so long", and "Oh, for the love of -- no, take that off, try this one instead", Morgana barged into the dressing room, bumping into him just as he was peeling off a pair of needle-studded and chalk-covered trousers and rammed him into the far wall.

"Morgana!" Merlin hastily tugged on his jeans.

"What are you doing? We're not done!"

"Oh, trust me, we're done." Merlin hastily pulled off the white shirt over his head and yanked on his plain, black, _comfortable_ V-neck. He pushed up the sleeves and held up his hands. "I don't know how you do it. I have a huge amount of respect for you right now. But standing still and getting poked at with pins? Not cool. I'm done, Morgana. Pack up what we've got and --"

"Oh, no, we're not. Put those back on. There's three more shirts I want you to try, and Claude's going to the back room to find some more --"

There was a faint knock on the door.

"Go away! We're busy!" Merlin said. He gave Morgana a look when he saw her smirk. "Oh, whatever. He can think what he likes --"

"Poor Arthur, whatever will he do when he finds out you fancy his sister?"

"-- anything but that. Don't get me wrong, Morgana, your tits could make every straight man in the _universe_ stand at attention, but I'm not straight, not by a long shot --"

"I've been told that my tits could turn a gay man straight," Morgana said, glancing down at herself, reaching up to cup her breasts in a way that Merlin was sure was supposed to be seductive.

"When your brother looks like Arthur --"

The door crashed open, knocking Morgana into the wall, and --

_tall, broad shouldered, a bit thicker than Perceval_

_changed out of the polo shirt and into a black turtleneck and jacket_

_face like he'd kissed someone's cleats_

_the flash of a gun_

\-- Merlin reacted. He didn't think. He gestured with a hand, and the rugby player slammed into the expensive Vuitton-patterned wallpaper, leaving behind a body-sized indentation.

The impact triggered the rugby player's itchy trigger finger. A bullet fired, missing completely, high and to the left, shattering the edge of a Vuitton-shaped lamp --

\-- _Gods, was there_ anything _in this stupid store that didn't have that logo?_

The rugby player landed on a cushion of discarded shirts, shaking his head, stunned, already showing signs of life despite the mixture of blistered wallpaper and drifting plaster dust. Merlin didn't think, he didn't have time to think. He could only do what had been drilled into him, over and over again.

He didn't have a weapon. Never mind that he had _magic_ \-- he'd spent his whole life not using his magic, and he wasn't going to start now, not _anymore_ , anyway, not in front of Morgana, not in front of the enemy. He knew better than to kick the rugby player in the gut -- a trained killer wouldn't flinch at that, and he'd take Merlin instead, pulling him down --

_Out. Get out. Let's get out._

Merlin grabbed Morgana, twisted her around, and pushed her out the door, stumbling after her. She was already running, and _how_ she could run on those heels and _still_ be faster than Merlin, Merlin would never know --

And suddenly, there was Kay, grabbing Merlin, and Leon, darkening the exit from the dressing room, catching Morgana and half-carrying, half-shielding her out into the public area. Kay drew his Sig Sauer, flicking off the safety and chambering a round in what looked to be the same motion, holding it close against his leg as he returned to the dressing room.

Merlin followed him.

"Stay _here_ , Merlin," Kay warned, and Merlin backed away, moving to stand next to a somewhat-dishevelled Morgana, because Leon had his gun in his other hand. Morgana wrapped her hand around Merlin's arm, holding so tightly that her nails was leaving marks.

Kay returned almost at once, shaking his head. "Took off through the back door. Bypassed the security, jimmied the lock open. It's how he got in, it's how he got out. Didn't see where he went."

The Sig Sauer went into the holster in the small of his back, hidden under his sweater.

"Did you see who it was?" Kay asked.

Merlin nodded sharply. "The guy from the plane."

"Same guy, eh?" Kay shook his head. "He has balls. I guess that cinches it. He's after you."

"Right," Leon said flatly. "Let's get out of here. Kay, get the car. Check it out first, make sure it hasn't been tampered --"

"No," Morgana said abruptly. Her eyes were a little wild, there was a flush of adrenaline to her cheeks, and her hands were trembling ever-so-slightly, but there was nothing but steel beneath.

"Morgana --" Leon started, but he flagged, already showing signs of caving in to whatever Morgana wanted.

"I said no." Morgana brushed her hands through her hair and straightened her dress, smoothing the fabric down with manicured fingers. "I mean, yes, send Kay out to make sure nothing's been tampered with. But, no. We came here to find Merlin an outfit for tonight, and I mean to get him dolled up."

"Morgana --" Leon tried again, giving up after a two-second staredown. "All right. Kay, you stay back there, keep an eye on that busted door. I'll call Owain and have him come straight over to check out the car."

Kay nodded and headed into the back. Leon holstered his gun, giving Morgana a tight squeeze, kissing her forehead. "Are you sure?"

"I'm fine, darling," Morgana said, giving him a quick, stern smile that didn't show any trace of anxiety, and Merlin would be damned if he could tell whether she was frazzled at all.

"The minute you're not --"

"Leon," Morgana warned, and Leon sighed, holding up his hands. "Merlin, come on. I still have those shirts for you to try on."

Merlin groaned, watching Morgana head into the dressing rooms. "I should've let the guy shoot me."

Leon reached out and patted his shoulder comfortingly.

 

ooOOoo

 

"All right. We don't have time for any fancy planning, so it's going to be a fast-and-dirty, by-the-book hit," Arthur said, buckling the last of his gear. "Standard breach formation, subdue anything that moves, go for kill shots if you need to. Smoke and tear gas when we get into the hangar, make sure it's a wide spread. The principal is Pav Andreiyev. He'll be the man in the three-piece suit, early sixties, line scar on his face from the top of his forehead down his left side."

Lance had done a fancy bit of driving to lose anyone who was following, but as far as Arthur could tell, no one had been on their tail when they left the airport. It was a quick drive to the smaller concourse where they changed into black tactical clothing and gear, strapped on Kevlar armour over top of an uniform that was a little too crisp and off-the-rack for Arthur's liking, chaffing at his skin after having been in a top-brand suit.

He was not keen on this mission, not at all. Their cover was this Andreiyev bloke, but their _real_ target was Michael Valiant. The only reason why they were involved was because Kilgarrah and Bayard couldn't trust that the locals would take Valiant out, not without explaining why and blowing the whole mission from the get go.

It didn't mean that Arthur wanted to be involved himself. In fact, the further away he was from Valiant, the better.

Still, he couldn't help but feeling that this was his responsibility, somehow -- that every time Excalibur had gone against Valiant's team at Pendragon during a weapons test, they were adding to Valiant's personal psychological breakdown. Valiant's people, no matter how good they were, simply could not stand against Excalibur, not with Valiant leading them, and Valiant knew that.

Maybe their long-standing rivalry had been a trigger point. Maybe it was Arthur himself. It wasn't -- it couldn't be -- Arthur's problem. And yet, it had become one.

There _were_ solutions to this. They didn't need to be as drastic as the kill order he'd been handed down. But orders were orders, and in the end, there was something bigger than Valiant, something more important to protect.

The mission.

Merlin.

"The hangar is right in the middle, and it was cleared of civilians as soon as DPSD was notified of Andreiyev's arrival. All the personnel that you'll see in the outer building are agents that will clear the scene as soon as we arrive. Is that correct?"

Arthur glanced at Jean Dupont. He was a short man -- shorter than average, and he made a point of standing as far away from them as was humanely possible while remaining close enough to participate in the discussion, and he was _still_ dwarfed by Perceval's greater heigh t-- with short brown hair cut in a stylish flip, small, calculating eyes, and a white-pepper beard that was scruffier than Gwaine's even on Gwaine's best scruffy day. Like Arthur's men, Dupont was wearing assault gear.

"That is correct," Dupont said with a nod. His French accent was on the thick side. "When we are ready to approach, we will signal them to exit. We know our agents; anyone else who may leave the building will be intercepted and captured."

Behind Dupont was a small team from the _Direction de la protection et de la sécurite de la défense_ \-- the most that the military agency could muster on short notice. They were all gruff, serious men, barely speaking two or three words to any of them, but Arthur and the others weren't here to make friends. They were there to come in, do a job, and get out, and it wasn't their damned fault if the DPSD decided that they were a little put-out that an external team would be capturing a man notorious for being behind some of the largest European sex slave rings.

"Good," Arthur said, returning his attention to his men. "This is an unscheduled visit. Andreiyev didn't bring a full security force, and the hangar hasn't been secured ahead of time. Capture him alive."

As far as the DPSD was concerned, this was a foreign-government mission for which there would be an exchange of favours -- Excalibur would lead the assault, but the DPSD would reap the benefits. With several secret service agencies wanting to get their hands on Andreiyev, the DSPD could use the man as a bargaining chip however they liked: to curry favour with neighbouring countries, to trade for diplomatic liberties, to bargain for greater concessions from other governments, or to exchange for several of the French undercover agents whose covers were blown, and who were currently languishing in a prison in the arse-end of nowhere.

Arthur didn't care how they dealt with Andreiyev as long as their personal objective -- kept secret from the DSPD -- was met. They needed to silence Michael Valiant.

According to Kilgarrah, Valiant was arriving on the private jet with Andreiyev, working directly under the chief of security, Yugo something-or-other -- apparently he didn't have a surname. Valiant's background had been sufficient to impress Andreiyev, but not enough to convince Yugo of the sincerity of Valiant's recent career change in providing security for Interpol's Most Wanted. Arthur didn't blame Yugo for being suspicious -- if Arthur were in his shoes, he'd think that this was an undercover setup.

Except he'd asked, and Kilgarrah had verified through all of his mysterious channels, but no one was admitting to working with Valiant on any undercover mission of _anything_.

"Any questions?" Arthur looked over his team. Lance had been the one to prepare the equipment, since he was the only one of them on-site, and he didn't doubt that Lance had quadruple-checked everything, since the rest wouldn't have the time. Gwaine had already cleared his assault rifle; Perceval and Bohrs were doing just that at the moment, having saved the most important task for last. Arthur waited until they all shook their heads before doing his last checks himself.

"All right, let's go. Is your team ready?" Arthur asked, turning to Dupont.

Dupont shrugged his shoulders in the casual laissez-faire shrug that the French seemed able to do from childhood, and said, "You take the risk, we take the glory."

"Isn't that always the way?" Arthur retorted, raising a brow. Dupont's lips thinned, his eyes narrowing slightly in insult, but he kept his mouth shut on the off-chance that Arthur might think twice about handing Andreiyev over to them.

" _L'avion commence la descente, commandaire. Nous avons cinq minutes_ ," said one of Dupont's men, a hand on his ear.

"They're on approach. We have five minutes," Dupont said. Arthur nodded, not feeling the need to tell the French agent that he didn't need a translation. It was more fun this way, listening to them mutter insults behind their backs, and reproaching them for it later.

Arthur's team switched out of the Land Rover to a concourse vehicle big enough to carry them and Dupont with a few men, with one of Dupont's people behind the wheel in airport service uniform. The truck groaned and rattled, wobbling like a swaybacked mare, and the team members sat in the dark, bracing themselves against the movement, waiting blind to arrive at the hangar.

This was one of the moments that Arthur hated the most, not being able to see where they were going, not knowing if they were driving into something that was worse than it seemed. They were operating on too little information -- nothing new, there -- but also under the purview of a completely different agency, with Kilgarrah and the Directory operating from the outside.

The plan was to drive the truck to the hangar while the plane landed on the tarmac, for the team to exit when the plane rolled into the building. The swaying slowed, then came to a stop; the engine idled for a moment before the ignition turned off.

" _Nous sommes ici,_ " said the driver. There was a faint shuffle of paperwork as he busied himself, trying to look busy while they the DSPD's overwatch indicated the conditions to begin. " _Attendez pour le guet._ "

 _Wait for word_.

No one translated the dialogue coming over the earwig; there was radio silence until the driver opened the truck's doors, or until he drove away -- in which case Arthur would know if the mission was a go, or if it had gotten bollocksed up somewhere.

They waited. And waited some more. Someone in the background hit the backlight of their watch to see the time; not one of Arthur's men, because they were far more patient than that. Also, they knew how to count and time themselves in the dark without external assistance.

" _C'est prêt,_ " said the driver.

" _Donnez mot de ficher la piste,_ " Dupont said. Arthur felt the truck shift slightly as Dupont stood up. "Our people will be leaving the hangar shortly. We are go in one minute."

He repeated his instructions in French to his own men, and Arthur said, "Masks down."

Arthur rolled down the thin balaclava, covering his face and mouth, and adjusted his goggles over top. Some of Dupont's people were doing the same, though not all; those who were masking up were the ones whose identities couldn't be compromised for one undercover mission or another, like Arthur and his men. Right now, at this moment, in this place, Arthur couldn't risk anyone getting spotted. If it went sideways and by some miracle Valiant got away, the mission was in the can before it even began.

There was a distant shift of weight in the truck, the sound of the driver's side door opening and slamming shut. There was a cautious creak at the back end, a repetitive knock of warning, and finally, the rear door swung up and open. Arthur's team used a few seconds to adjust to the bright light, taking the time to put on their gas masks. The driver moved out of the way, and they filed out of the truck.

Lance, Bohrs and Gwaine went right. Perceval and Arthur went left. The DSPD swarmed behind them to cover the building, blocking off all the other exits and stopping anyone who would try to escape.

They were around the hangar in a flash of movement, their black assault gear sticking out like a sore thumb against the pale aluminum housing and the bright sunshine, but they moved like ghosts, quick and silent, flashing past so quick that anyone watching from the rooftops of nearby buildings or from afar to give warning to the people inside the hangar would blink and miss them completely.

Arthur stopped at the edge of the open hangar bay doors; someone had thoughtfully shut them almost completely. There was a gap barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through; Perceval would have trouble, but then again, he had the strength to shove the doors open, even if they were stuck on the railing guides. Gwaine was on the other side of the door; he counted down one-two-three, and peered inside, in and out, whiplash quick.

He held out his fingers in gestures. The principal was at the rear of the hangar, surrounded by three other people. There were two people by the plane. Four people scattered throughout. And, most importantly, Valiant -- designated by the V for victory sign -- was in the thick of it. It was perfect. If Valiant had been to the rear of the building, he would have more time to react -- time that Arthur didn't intend on giving him.

Gwaine ducked behind Lance. His role now was to provide cover and to mop up behind them.

Bohrs held out the nerve gas agent -- it was an Owain Special, mixed with just enough smoke to add to the confusion. Arthur gave the go signal. Bohrs stepped around Lance, crouched down, pulled the pin, and rolled the canister inside with the precision of a master curler.

They didn't have long to wait; the canister started to smoke the instant that the pin was pulled. The people inside didn't notice, not right away, but when the smoke was thick enough to draw attention and alarm, the canister broke in a thunderous crack of sound and light that disoriented anyone who had been looking for the source of the smoke.

Arthur thought that he heard Valiant swear, but it was lost in a loud, strangled cough that chorused through the hangar. "Gas!" someone cried out uselessly -- they would've been better off holding their breath.

That was, however, the cue that they had been waiting for.

Arthur went in first, Lance second, followed by Bohrs; there was a loud crash as Perceval opted to warping the offending parts of the door out of his way instead of messing about with the sliding mechanism of the door. The muzzle flash of gunfire from inside the building was the only justification Arthur needed to fire back, squeezing the trigger in short, sure bursts. Lance, behind him, did the same, but in the other direction, while Arthur was certain that the man who'd come out of nowhere at him through the smoke had been put down by one of Gwaine's crack shots.

They had to move fast; for all that Valiant was a tempting target right now, Andreiyev was still the principal, and his chief of security was urging him out the back door. They wouldn't make it far, not with the DSPD surrounding the building, but Arthur had no intention of doing anything but handing Andreiyev over to Dupont himself, rather than letting Dupont get his hands on Andreiyev because the old fart had turned tail and ran.

Disabling crew that had never been trained to military standards was a simple, if time-consuming job. Getting the personnel who knew their way around a gun was even easier, because they gave away their positions every time they fired their weapons. Valiant, on the other hand, was ex-military, and he'd been trained to understand the basics of avoiding capture -- and that meant that if Arthur were to continue for Andreiyev, he would have to let Valiant go.

And leave him to Gwaine.

Arthur almost felt sorry for Valiant. If there was someone who would happily give his left nut to get his hands on the cheating bastard, it was Gwaine. And Gwaine would get him.

Yugo was smart -- he knew that they were there for his boss, and he also knew that his continued survival depended on whether he gambled that they would escape the assault with their hides intact, or that he would have a better chance on his own. Arthur didn't favour the man's chances if it ever got out that Yugo _abandoned_ his boss, and Yugo must have thought of that, too, because he took a deep steeling breath that made him cough and choke, his eyes squinting through the burning smoke, protective tears streaming down his face.

Yugo came at Arthur.

He was a big man, bigger than Arthur. He had the broad shoulders and the bodybuilder stance of someone whose elbows couldn't quite touch his ribcage, arms arched outward, shoulders rolled forward, chest puffed out. Men who were built like that often had weak points -- all their musculature was on the visible front, turning them top-heavy, front-heavy, and with weak muscles along their backs.

There were a million ways that Arthur could disable the man. He could take advantage of his lower centre of gravity, his superior strength, his greater agility and speed. He could test himself against a man who was purported to have squeezed the life out of innocents with his bare hands, crushing their skulls between fingers that were thick enough to stab boltholes through two-by-fours. He could duck and dodge away from the man until he wore him out, letting the nerve gas wear at him until he was knocked down.

He could do all these things, except he had grown out of the _prove myself_ stage of his life when he was still a teenager, and this wasn't a bloody game. This was a mission, and he had somewhere else to be.

Yugo charged at him, an armed bull through the coloured smoke, his mouth open in a wordless scream, swinging his semiautomatic toward Arthur.

Arthur fired first in a short burst. Yugo collapsed, face-first, on the second stumbling step. Arthur continued to advance, sweeping the area, watching as his own men cleared the area around them, securing anyone who still posed a threat.

Andreiyev tried to run, but he was blinded by the nerve gas, and he couldn't breath. He tripped over a toolbox, fell to his knees, and crawled toward the far wall, reaching for a doorknob.

Arthur jammed his foot against the door. Andreiyev made several fruitless attempts to yank the door open before he opened his reddened eyes and stared up the barrel of Arthur's weapon.

 _"Clear,"_ Arthur heard over the earwig. Bohrs voice; he had taken the left-hand sweep.

 _"Clear,"_ from Lance, who had taken the right.

 _"Clear,"_ from Perceval, who sounded somewhat concerned, but Arthur didn't know what was going on until he realized that no one had heard a sound out of Gwaine.

There was a long, long pause before Gwaine responded. A nearly-silent pop pinged through the air, coinciding with the beginning of the smoke and nerve gas clearing.

 _"Clear,"_ Gwaine confirmed, sounding distant, detached, absent.

There was a reason why Gwaine was a sniper. Close, deliberate kills did something to him. Changed him. Darkened him. Pulled out that part of him that no one should see, full of rage and violence born out of someone who should, by rights, be incapable of it. Arthur had seen it for the first time years ago when they first signed up for the Armed Forces. He never wanted to see it again.

"Clear," Arthur confirmed, and gestured with his gun. Andreiyev followed the movement with his tearing eyes, unable to look away. Arthur unstrapped the gas mask, letting it hang around his throat, and barked an order. " _Hé! Toi! Tête au pied. Tout de suite._ "

_You. Face down. Right now._

Andreiyev complied. Bohrs finished his section, knelt next to Andreiyev, and patted him down, removing two handguns and a knife before strapping a zip-tie around the man's wrists and hauling him to his feet.

"All clear," Arthur said over the radio, sotto voce, so that Andreiyev wouldn't suspect that he wasn't anything else but another DSPD agent.

The smoke was clearing; someone -- most likely one of Dupont's people -- must have opened the hangar doors to let the lingering traces of the nerve gas out. Bohrs walked Andreiyev toward Dupont, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat. Unlike most of the others, Dupont wasn't afraid about showing his face.

"All yours," Arthur told him.

"Not bad," Dupont said. He waved a hand for his men; someone who was nearly Yugo's size -- but who had a friendlier face -- came over and took Andreiyev's arm, dragging him away to a more secure location.

"Glad you approve," Arthur said.

" _Un petit peu lent, je pense; on pourrait l'avoir pris plus vite,_ " someone said. Another agent nearby laughed. _I believe that was a little bit slow. We could've gotten him faster than them._

Arthur turned in the man's direction. Like Dupont, he wasn't wearing a balaclava to cover his face, but he was wearing goggles, and his face was somehow oddly smeared considering he hadn't actually been involved in the direct assault.

" _J'ai vu vôtre_ vite _. À St-Alban. C'était combien? Sept morts? Deux de vos hommes propres?_ "

_I've seen your "fast". In St-Alban. It was how many dead? Seven? Two of them your own men?_

Arthur saw the man blink in surprise to realize that Arthur was fluent in French, thank you very much, but that surprise faded to anger when Arthur's words sank in. The agent took a step forward; Dupont moved to stand between them before something could have come out of it, but Arthur wasn't going to simply stand aside and let someone insult his men.

"We're done here," Arthur said, meeting Dupont's suddenly dark gaze. "Andreiyev is all yours. We'll need a transport to our vehicles."

"When we've secured the scene," Dupont said, but Arthur recognized a delaying tactic when he heard one.

"The scene is secure. I want the transport ready in five minutes, parked out front next to the box truck, driver behind the wheel." Arthur walked away.

"Hey --" Dupont reached for a name that Arthur had never given; all that Dupont knew about the team was that they were a specialist group assigned to assist them with recovering Andreiyev. "You. Wait. You --"

Arthur detoured and walked into Dupont's space. He kept his voice low, calm, even. "When _your_ men manage a clean grab of the principal with no injuries to the ex-fil team and no civilian deaths on less intel and a tight timetable, I'll be happy to buy them a beer. But until then, you can say _thank you_ by getting that damn transport out front immediately. Do you understand? Because I'll be happy to take charge of Andreiyev myself, and march him over to an agency that would actually be _grateful_ for our help."

A muscle worked in Dupont's jaw. The man sucked in his cheeks as if he were about to blurt out exactly what was on his mind, but only some sort of propriety -- doubtlessly founded on the question of not knowing who, exactly, Arthur and his men were -- kept him from opening his mouth and digging himself a bigger hole than the one he was currently standing in. The sound of grinding teeth was a rusty chainsaw against a petrified oak tree, clanging and resonating, neither side willing to give.

In answer, Dupont pushed a finger against his ear to activate his mike, and said, " _André. À la porte, s'il-vous-plaît. Tout de suite._ "

Dupont raised both eyebrows in questioning _will that be all_ , and Arthur answered him with a lazy Boy Scout salute.

Arthur joined his men. They were all still wearing the balaclavas, but the gas masks were off and the goggles shoved up onto their hardcaps. Perceval was staring at Gwaine with concern, and Gwaine was standing off to the side, his body turned half-away from the group. Arthur followed where Gwaine was deliberately not looking and saw Michael Valiant, his body splayed where it had fallen behind a few cargo crates, a gun inches from his open hand. The skin around his eyes was red with blisters, and right between them was a perfect bullet hole.

Arthur moved closer to Gwaine, the team closing ranks around him, Lance giving Arthur a slight nod as if to say, _He's fine, it's not as bad as the last time._

"Gwaine," Arthur said quietly.

"He were a weasely little fucker, weren't he?"

"He was."

"So it's good riddance, yeah?"

"And then some." Arthur paused. "Are you all right?"

Gwaine's head swung around and made eye contact. It was light and fleeting, empty and distant, but at least he made eye contact. Gwaine frowned at Arthur and scoffed, "'Course I am."

It was all very theatrical, and Arthur wasn't fooled, but it was the best he would get out of Gwaine right here and right now. He didn't want to start something in front of the DSPD agents -- best if Gwaine came undone in private, if he was going to come undone at all. Arthur gave him a second, watching Gwaine take a deep, forced breath, and nodded.

"Let's go."

The transport was waiting for them, engine idling, when they emerged out the rear of the hangar. None of them said a word on the drive to the rally point, stripping out of their balaclavas once the truck rolled into the warehouse.

"I'll take care of the gear," Lance said, checking and collecting the weapons, packing them away in a hidden compartment at the back of the Land Rover. When Arthur handed him his cleared weapon, Lance took his arm. "Look. I didn't want to say anything, but if it's going to cause trouble --"

"It's fine, Lance," Arthur said, already knowing what Lance was about to say -- that Gwen had managed to get herself shipped to the house along with Morgana's belongings, once more her personal assistant. It was a complication that Arthur _definitely_ didn't need, but Gwen was more level-headed than Morgana, and might just be willing to follow orders. "She's here now. I'm not going to send her back. But I need you tonight, and she _can't_ come. We have our hands full with Morgana. Gwen isn't going to like it, I know, but this is work, and make sure she understands that. After tonight, do the tourist thing with Gwen. Take a few days."

"Christ, she won't like it, but if you're buttering us up with a few days off --"

"I am," Arthur said, amused. He unbuckled the nylon belt, rolled it up, and shoved it in a compartment. "I'll throw in the flat across the river from the Louvre."

"Are you trying to convince Gwen to leave me for you or something?" Lance asked, raising a brow.

"Consider it worksman's compensation," Arthur said.

"For what?"

"You're the one who's going to be telling Gwen that she's not coming to the gala," Arthur reminded him.

"Oh. Right." Lance blanched visibly.

"Christ, you're afraid to tell your own wife _no_?"

"It's Gwen. Wouldn't you be?" Lance grinned, ducking his head. He nodded toward the others. "Which one of them wankers told you she was here?"

"Kilgarrah," Arthur said.

"How did he know?"

Arthur shook his head, shrugging out of the Kevlar vest, tucking it into a duffel bag. "How does he know anything?"

Arthur glanced at Gwaine, but Gwaine was systematically stripping out of his gear as if it was just another day at the office. Bohrs picked up some of Gwaine's cast-offs, rolled them up with a shake of his head, and put them away. Perceval caught his eye and tilted his head, motioning him over.

"I think we should leave him behind tonight," Perceval said.

"There's hours yet before the gala. He'll sort it," Arthur said. He stripped out of his shirt and kicked off his combat boots. "And you'll stay with him until he does. If he can't clear his head -- without drinking -- then we'll leave him behind."

Perceval glanced over at Gwaine, who was pulling on his trousers, zipping them up. His head was down, his hair just long enough, now, to fall into his eyes, and anyone who didn't know him would think he was merely in deep thought, and not lost in his own world with a risk of never coming out right again.

"All right," Perceval said, giving Arthur a curt nod that meant he thought Gwaine would need more than a few hours, a shrug that meant he was willing to wait and see.

Arthur changed into his suit, leaving his tie loose and running his hands through his hair. They did a quick doublecheck, a count of all the gear, and left the warehouse and the DSPD agents behind without so much as a salute good-bye -- they weren't paying much attention anyway, given that they were packing up their own equipment.

Lance pulled out of the warehouse and onto the highway, glancing at the clock. "If we hurry, we'll miss rush hour."

"When isn't it rush hour in Paris?" Arthur checked his phone for messages and scrolled through a dozen texts, most of them from Merlin.

_Augghhh, why couldnt I come w u to mtng?_

_She was a torturer in another life I know she was_

_Do I have 2 wear a tux? Rather wear my jeans_

_How did u live w her? Shes insane!_

Arthur chuckled. The last text message was from Leon.

_Rgby plyr attkd Mrln n Mrgna. Both OK. Plyr got awy._

"What the fuck?"

Lance startled, the SUV weaving slightly. "What is it?"

"The man from the VIP lounge back in Germany --"

"What about him?" Gwaine asked, a spark of life returning to him.

"He's had a go at Merlin and Morgana," Arthur said, thumbing through his contacts list, wondering why Merlin's number wasn't the number one on his list. _Where the fuck -- here it is --_ He dialled the number, but before it could go through, a text came in.

_How do u pple wear this shite evry day?_

"Is Merlin all right?" Gwaine asked, sliding forward from the back seat, a hand on Arthur's shoulder.

"Leon said they are. If Merlin would quit texting me, I could get a call through --"

Another text came in right then, as if proving a point.

_I knw Y they call them monkey suits_

"I'll call him," Gwaine said.

Arthur shot him a glare over his shoulder and forcefully hit the CALL NUMBER button. It was picked up on the second ring.

"Arthur, I --"

" _Mer_ lin," Arthur began, but his voice faltered, overwhelmed with relief, as soon as he heard Merlin's voice over the phone.

"-- I'm _fine_ , I promise. Damn it, I told Leon not to text you, that we'll tell you what happened when we get back to the house --"

" _Mer_ lin," Arthur tried again, but Merlin kept talking.

"-- Morgana's taking it better than I am, and that's saying a lot, and, OW!" The phone dropped from Merlin's mouth, and Arthur could clearly hear him complain, "Look, Claude, you're a nice bloke and all, but I've got a _boyfriend_. I'm talking to him right now, so unless you want him to hear how you're _molesting_ me, kindly back away and give the seamstress those pins -- yes. Like that, thank you. Arthur. Sorry about that. Ever since Morgana mentioned that you like me in red, the shopkeeper-tailor-bloke has been pissy, and I think he tried to puncture my nuts just now -- Anyway. We'll be a while longer, I think. Morgana? How much longer are we going to be here for? A couple of hours? Oh, my god. How do you _people_ live like this?"

"Merlin?" Arthur asked, his voice small and soft.

"Yeah?"

"Did you just call me your _boyfriend_?"

 

ooOOoo

 

They would have spent hours more at the stores if Merlin (and Leon and Kay) hadn't put his foot down. Morgana could have taken on all three of them, but when Merlin had ground in his heels and sat down in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing the Parisian foot traffic to weave around him (one trenchcoat-wearing, high-heeled monstrosity of Too Much Makeup and Too Much Self-Absorption would have stomped her way through Merlin if Kay hadn't deflected her), even Morgana had to throw in the towel.

It wasn't as if Merlin didn't understand. Every member of the team dealt with their emotions after a high-stress situation in their own way -- he shouldn't have been surprised to discover that Morgana's retail therapy really was retail therapy. But he wasn't that oblivious, either -- Leon was on a fragile edge, distracted to the point of studying everyone who approached them as if he expected an attack to break out at any moment, and the longer they were out in the open, the more they dangled a tempting morsel for anyone intending to come after them again.

If they had the team backing them up and were setting up a bait-and-capture situation, it would be different. With most of the team at the house -- even Owain had made his escape as soon as he cleared their Land Rover, not wanting to get roped into anything that involved _Morgana_ and _shopping_ \-- and Arthur's team out somewhere doing _businessy_ things, they were doing something operationally stupid, letting them remain exposed like this.

None of them thought that there would be another attack so soon, not when they were all on the alert, now, but it was also the perfect time to try again, when they were wired and distracted and out in the open and vulnerable.

And besides, even if Kay were perfectly at ease and Merlin largely undisturbed by the attack, grateful only that Morgana hadn't been hurt when the rugby player burst through the change room door, suffering Morgana's retail therapy was _stressing him out_.

_"We have everything I need for tonight, yeah?" Merlin had asked, pleading -- bloody well pleading -- for mercy. "Shoes and socks and trousers and shirt and that bund thing --"_

_"Cummerbund," Kay had offered._

_"-- cummerbund, and tie and jacket. I don't need anything else. Right? Right? Morgana -- where are you going -- I am not going into another store, no, absolutely not --"_

_"Your mistake is letting her get anywhere near a store," Leon had said, offering supportive advice without actually being supportive. Merlin had noticed that Leon had given up trying to reason with Morgana two shops prior, and had privately crossed him off as a potential ally against her._

_"No kidding? I thought my mistake was letting her take me out on this shopping trip in the first place --"_

They arrived at the house with a several hours to spare before they needed to leave for the gala -- and that was probably only because Merlin promised Morgana that when they went back to London, he'd go shopping with her _again_. He didn't know how that happened, not exactly. He'd been babbling by that point, desperate for anything that would get him out of playing mannequin for only the Gods knew how much longer.

 _"Deal,"_ Morgana had said, smiling widely, and Merlin had thought -- still thought -- that she was a vampire of some sort, because she took perverse glee in the pain of others, even thriving on it.

Gwaine and Perceval were waiting outside the three-storied _bloody mansion_ when Leon came to a stop next to the fountain in the middle of the road, neither of them looking as if they'd taken any downtime after the mission earlier in the day. They were a little tired, a little drawn, but there was an anxiety to Gwaine's expression, an edge to him that Perceval's look of concern didn't explain.

Merlin climbed out of the car, and Gwaine was right in front of him a moment later, scanning him up and down as if he expected weeping wounds and organ damage and bones sticking out of Merlin's skin, not someone who was walking and talking despite Morgana's best efforts to turn him into a blubbering, keening idiot.

"You two all right?" Gwaine asked, but his eyes were firmly on Merlin, intense and desperate, as if he needed to hear the words.

Merlin offered him a quick, jerky nod and a lopsided grin. "Yeah. I'm all right. The tailors did me in worse than some perv breaking into the change room trying to see me starkers."

That did something to Gwaine, because the flat of his eyes twinkled a little, and his mouth stretched into something that might have been a smile, if it weren't so strained. "Were you starkers?"

"Thank fuck, no," Morgana said, walking around the Land Rover, her hand gliding over the smooth metal. Merlin wasn't fooled, there was a bit of a wriggle to her step, as if the shock of the attack was about to crash. Leon was right behind Morgana, watching her as if he expected her to collapse at any moment, ready to leap in and catch her before that happened. "Merlin's a sweetheart, but really, the last thing Claude needed to see was Merlin running bare-arsed out of the dressing room."

"Claude?" Arthur asked, coming down the steps of the house. There was something about the timing of it, because the sun had come out from behind the clouds at exactly that moment, casting down a single beam of light to shroud Arthur in a lovely halo. He had tossed his jacket and tie somewhere, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off the lean muscle of his forearms, the top few buttons of his shirt undone, giving Merlin a tantalizing glimpse of smooth flesh that would -- if only he could reach out and kiss it -- make enduring the last few hours of Morgana's retail therapy well worth it.

"The Vuitton designer," Morgana supplied.

"The bloke who damn near stabbed a pin through my nuts," Merlin mumbled.

"And whose fault was that? You were wriggling --" Morgana retorted.

"I wouldn't have been wriggling if he hadn't been fondling --"

"He wasn't fondling, he was _measuring_ \--"

"With the cup of his hand?" Merlin shuddered. "Never again, Morgana. Next time, we'll just give them the measurements on a piece of paper, yeah? Or have a woman take them. I could live with a woman doing it, well, unless she gets ideas --"

"Oh." Morgana rolled her eyes, but there had been a tone of exhaustion in the little exhalation.

"Why don't we go inside?" Leon asked gently, covering for her, knowing as well as Merlin did that Morgana, like Arthur, would never admit to weakness of any kind. She was drained. The adrenaline, the rush of flight-or-flight, had left her body a long time ago, and she'd dealt with the shock of the attack by pushing herself even harder, continuing on when she should have taken a moment. Merlin didn't know where she found the strength.

Leon, Kay, even Merlin -- they were used to it. But Morgana? He couldn't help but admire her even more. That woman was steel, tempered in something he couldn't understand.

"It is getting cold, isn't it?" Morgana said, turning to Leon, giving him a grateful smile, the sort of tiny little smile that was exchanged between a couple who knew each other well, so well that they could see past the pretences, the excuses. Leon followed her up the steps, but Arthur stopped them from going inside, taking Morgana's arm gently.

"Are you all right?" Arthur asked, his voice soft, quiet, a whisper of concern that he wouldn't normally want anyone to hear, not given his current cover, the guise of the self-absorbed, spoilt prat that he was supposed to be wearing. The words were too low to carry very far, but Merlin could hear them clear as day.

"I'm fine, Arthur. But promise me one thing," Morgana said, her eyes flashing like the crisp, cool jade of a precious Imperial artefact, her lips in the tight, thin smile of someone who would happily tear someone apart if she was given a reason. "Get the bastard for me."

Arthur gave her a small, little nod, and let her go. Leon's hand slid down Morgana's spine to rest in the small of her back, guiding her the rest of the way inside.

Kay and Perceval were unloading the Land Rover, bags and boxes and luggage, with Gwaine standing off to the side, leaning against a pillar, hands in his pockets. His eyes were clouded with a distant, faraway look, but the line of his body had lost its edge, his shoulders slumping with the defeat of relief. Merlin recognized that look -- he'd seen it on Will often enough after Will came back with his team after a shoot, and he'd seen it on Gwaine a few times, when he'd come back from a mission and went straight to the bar instead of to the debrief.

For all of Gwaine's bravado, his overwhelming self-confidence, deep, deep down, he didn't like to kill. Not through the scope of a rifle, not up close and personal.

Merlin wavered between going to talk to him and helping Kay and Perceval with the luggage, but Arthur made the decision for him.

"Merlin," he said, low and warning, gesturing with his hand, quick and firm. _Come here._

Merlin walked up the steps, pausing a step below Arthur, half-expecting him to take Merlin's arm the way he had with Morgana, only, his hand stayed at his side, and he looked down onto Merlin with a cold, icy expression.

It made Merlin shiver. The more he looked at Arthur, the more he saw cracks through the stone. The slightest pinch between his brows. The way he couldn't quite cloud the emotions from his eyes. The faint quirk of his lips, the clench of his jaw.

"I'm fine--" Merlin began.

"Get inside," Arthur interrupted, his tone harsh. He took Merlin's arm in a rough movement, half-pulling Merlin along until Merlin caught up to him.

It wasn't until they were through the thick oak door, braced with opulent metal girders and decorated with a giant knocker that would need someone of Perceval's size and strength to use, past the front entrance with the plush hand-woven carpeting that was worth the net capital of a small country, into a corridor with a floor of imported ivory-white Italian marble, white walls pinstriped with thin golden lines, and lined in Art Nouveau from someone or other that Merlin was sure was important, that Arthur let go. He let go, and guided Merlin against the wall, where he sagged against Merlin, chest against chest, leaning in, hesitant, to press soft lips against his own.

The kiss was light, too light and fleeting for Merlin's tastes, because Arthur drew away, turning his head to whisper, "Tell me what happened."

They stayed like that for a long moment, Merlin's hands hooked over Arthur's belt, Arthur's weight warm against him. Arthur's fingers touched his cheek and carded through his hair, and he nodded encouragingly, waiting for Merlin to start talking.

"I suppose it could have been worse," Merlin said finally. "I mean, the man was professional. He knew what he was doing. You'd think that he was a ninja with a measuring tape or something, the way he whipped it around. Then those pins -- he flung them like they were deadly weapons. Those bloody things _hurt_! I got a taste of what women go through when they get fitted for clothes -- no, honestly, how _do_ they do it? Never mind women -- what about you? How do you go about wearing fancy clothes all the time if that's what you have to go through to get them fitted? I swear I was going to kill him the third time his hand _accidentally_ brushed against my crotch --"

Arthur pulled back, studying Merlin with a frown. "What are we talking about here?"

"Claude, of course --"

"I don't want to hear about _that_ , you dolt," Arthur said, barely able to hide his chuckle.

"You two -- get a room," Geraint said, walking past them. His arms were full of boxes loaded high, blocking his view, and he nearly ran into the far door.

"That's an idea," Arthur said, his eyes trailing down to Merlin's lips. Merlin didn't have a chance to respond, completely befuddled by the way _that look_ made his insides flutter, and the next thing he knew, Arthur was pulling him down the corridor, around a corner, up a sweeping Cinderella-style staircase that split in two, past a rather large and obnoxious palm tree that needed trimming back before it took over the balcony, and into a room at the end of the corridor.

The entire walk to wherever it was that they ended up, Merlin had been too distracted by the play of muscles in Arthur's back, rippling under his shirt, and the way his trousers hugged that perfect arse to slow down enough to gape stupidly at the ridiculous opulence of the mansion. He only noticed it in passing, like a fleeting, disappearing dream, with the occasional glimmer of something bright and expensive staying in memory.

A door opened; a door shut. Merlin was pressed against a wall for the second time, and they resumed their conversation as if they had never been interrupted, Arthur's weight warm, comfortable, _perfect_ against him.

"Continue," Arthur said.

Merlin swallowed hard, because Arthur's breath against his cheek made it difficult to concentrate.

"The rugby player," Arthur prompted.

"Right," Merlin said, his voice a little deeper than normal, and he coughed a little. "So, I'd had enough of trying on things, of getting poked and prodded and yanked around --"

"You don't like that?" Arthur asked, shifting his weight slightly. Merlin couldn't see his eyes, but he thought he felt the flutter of eyelashes against his cheek, and his knees choose that moment to buckle.

"Oh, I like it fine, just not when it's not _you_ doing it --" Merlin lost his train of thought when Arthur's lips kissed that spot under his jaw. He didn't even know that he had a _spot_ there.

"So you were getting poked and prodded and yanked around. And then what?" Arthur asked.

"Um." Merlin licked his dry lips, staring up at the ceiling, trying to focus. "Morgana barged into the dressing room with more clothes that she wanted me to try on. Scared me to bloody death, I hadn't even had my pants on --"

Arthur's nibble on his throat startled him -- or rather, strangled whatever else he had been about to say, leaving it lost and forgotten and far behind.

"She barged into the change room," Arthur said, apparently dissatisfied with Merlin's otherwise unintelligible attempts at continuing the story.

"Yeah. Um. What?" Merlin frowned, narrowing his eyes. "Right. I've just got my jeans on, my shirt, and the door opens again, and I think it's Claude --"

There was a tug at the hem of his shirt, a wash of cold air, the warmth of Arthur's hand on his skin. _Fuck, that feels good._

"And...?"

"Um." Merlin closed his eyes, but that _didn't help, not one bloody bit_ , because Arthur choose that moment to lift his shirt up even more, his hands washing down his sides. "Um. But. It's. The. The rugby player, yeah. Morgana's between us. He pushes her out of the way. He has a gun, swings it at -- uhhh..."

Arthur nudged Merlin's arms up, muffling him for a moment as the black V-neck shirt was shoved up and over Merlin's head, tossed to the floor somewhere.

"Um." Merlin was suddenly very uncomfortable. He shifted his hips -- but that was a phenomenally bad idea when his erection brushed against Arthur's. "Um. Um. Arthur. Arthur?"

"What?" Arthur's tongue licked the line of Merlin's collarbone, breathing on it to cool the flesh, and with it went the very important question that Merlin wanted to ask Arthur right now.

It was a gasped struggle to remember. "Um. Cameras? Audio?"

"Private room," Arthur murmured, his voice rumbling through Merlin's chest.

"That didn't stop _them_ ," Merlin said, groaning. Arthur's tongue traced a circle on his shoulder, which was chased by a line of kisses.

"Checked and cleared," Arthur said. "What happened next?"

"No room. No time. No gun. You need to give me a gun," Merlin mumbled, his head thunking back against the wall.

"No, Merlin," Arthur said, and this time it was _Arthur's_ fault, because he moved from one side to another, and the slightest brush of their cocks through fabric robbed Merlin of breath.

"I used magic," Merlin said, when he could breathe again, though he was still seeing stars. "God, don't stop."

"Keep talking and I won't stop," Arthur promised, breaking contact with Merlin's throat long enough to speak.

"Shoved him out of the way. He went into the wall."

"Did he see you use it? Did Morgana?" Arthur asked, kissing, moist and gentle, all the way to the crook of Merlin's neck, right under his earlobe.

"Morgana didn't. Couldn't have. He didn't. Couldn't have. Moved too fast for him to see. He landed on the floor." Merlin paused, panting. He reached for Arthur's shirt, trying to find buttons. Arthur batted at his hands, pinning them against the wall. "Grabbed Morgana before he got his wind back. Got the fu-- _fuck, Arthur_ \-- out of there. He was gone when Kay and Leon --"

Merlin sagged at the soft brush of lips against his ear.

"How did he get in?" Arthur whispered.

"Back door. Disabled alarm. Crowbar on the lock. Got out the same way." Merlin had enough presence of mind to ask, "Any hits on his picture?"

"Not yet."

"I could --" _set up an image search parameter, reprogram the connections, direct it through the fastest pipes, hack databases_. Merlin couldn't speak, suddenly, because Arthur's hands slid down his sides, followed the hem of his jeans, and tugged at the button fly.

The first button popped open. If the sound of the Gates of Heaven opening up could sound like anything, it would be the faint brush of copper button against rough jean fabric.

"Not yet," Arthur said.

Another button went.

"Why didn't you follow protocol?" Arthur asked. The protocol that they'd worked out was that if they were ever attacked, the target -- Merlin and whoever else he was with -- would have to get the fuck out as quickly as possible.

A third button.

"Morgana," Merlin gasped.

Why were there so many buttons?

"Of course. And Leon?"

"Caved like a house of cards when he tried to -- _fuck!_ \-- make her leave," Merlin said, his words roughening when Arthur pulled his jeans down, boxer briefs and all, freeing Merlin's cock. Arthur brushed the back of his fingers over him, teasing strokes that pushed Merlin to the edge while barely touching, and finally, _finally_ , there was some reprieve in the shape of Arthur curling his fingers around Merlin's erect penis. Arthur pumped him once, twice, brushing his thumb over the slit, spreading pre-come to make it nice and slick.

Merlin would have come right then and there, except Arthur drew his hand away. Merlin's hips canted, chasing after Arthur.

"If I'd been there... If I made you leave, would you go?" Arthur asked.

"Um. No." There was a sharp, painful bite on his throat. "Ow! _Gods, Arthur!_ Yes, Arthur. Yes. Anything you want. _Anything_ \--"

Soft lips pressed against that bite in apology, sucking lightly in reward. The pressure at that point, mixed between the pain and the pleasure, turned the back of Merlin's shut eyelids bright and white.

Abruptly, the delicious sensations at his throat ebbed away, and Arthur's warmth was gone. Merlin's eyes snapped open, stunned, feeling bereft, but before he could focus, he felt something impossibly soft at his cock.

Arthur's lips.

" _Fuck,_ Merlin breathed, willing the wall to catch him, because he sure as hell was going to fall any second, now that Arthur wasn't supporting him. Arthur kissed the base of his cock; ran his tongue up the length, and wrapped his lips around the very tip.

Merlin sagged against the wall.

Hands drifted down his legs, pulling down his jeans. It was only distantly that Merlin felt pressure at one foot, lifting it up, tugging off his sneaker, then the leg of his pants. The same thing on the other leg, too, but Merlin didn't care. His whole world was focused around one thing -- Arthur, on his knees, taking him into his mouth in slow, shallow sucks that were made that much more intense by Arthur's callused hand, stroking his length.

The back of Merlin's head struck the wall.

He was making noises -- he couldn't help it. He'd always been a bit noisy during sex. But what really hit home, what really made him ache, were the soft moans from Arthur.

" _Fuck,_ ," Merlin said again, incapable of anything else. He reached down for Arthur, running his hand through his hair, his fingers getting tangled, pulling at him.

The sounds from Arthur deepened, rumbling, needy, hungry, and when Merlin yanked Arthur's hair, trying to free his hand, forcing Arthur to take him in deeper, Arthur _growled_ \-- not in pain, but in pleasure, and --

Merlin glanced down, and _shouldn't_ have, because the sight of Arthur like this, on his knees, his shirt rumpled, his cheeks flushed, it nearly made him come right then and there. Arthur's pants were undone, his cock was out, his fingers wrapped in a ring around the base, a lazy stroke, one, two, then stopping to grip himself tight, to keep himself from coming while he was sucking Merlin --

" _Gods. Fuck. Arthur. I'm. I'm gonna --_ "

At least, that's what Merlin _tried_ to say, but the words came out in a garbled crash of words. Sentience completely drained out of him in a searing-white orgasm that _most likely definitely absolutely_ killed a hundred million brain cells -- brain cells that were being sucked out of him, every single last one of them, by those beautiful lips and that _wonderful_ mouth.

It was the same mouth that crushed against his a second later, lips swollen red and raw, slicked wet with spit and come. Merlin could taste himself in Arthur's mouth, he could taste _Arthur_ \--

"I want to fuck you," Arthur breathed into the kiss. "Can I fuck you?"

"Ye--"

Arthur didn't wait to hear the rest of the word, which breathed out in a sibilant, needy hiss. He pulled Merlin around, walking him backwards, and Merlin though the bed was awfully _far_ , but then he felt the back of the bed against his thighs. Arthur grabbed his arse with both hands, pulling him up, lifting him, shoving him back. He slid an arm behind Merlin, half-carrying him further on the bed --

And the bed -- _Gods, the bed_ \-- it was almost better than sex, because Merlin was lying on a pillow-thick comforter that brushed against his skin like the teasing kiss of silk. It was distraction enough for Arthur to disappear, but not enough for Merlin to not to complain. "Shite. Where... Arthur, where..."

He looked around, dazed, wild, trying to take in the whole of the room while simultaneously locating Arthur. He heard the sound of something opening and closing. The rustle of fabric. And then, the bed dipped a tiny little bit next to him. Then closer. And closer, until Arthur was straddling him, his thighs blisteringly hot against Merlin's hips. Merlin leaned up; Arthur pushed down, covering Merlin's mouth in a filthy, filthy kiss of tangled tongues and gasped, hungry sounds. Each kiss came with a faint hitch of Arthur's hips, his cock teasing at Merlin's, rubbing and rubbing.

" _Arthur!_ " Merlin breathed, because if he wasn't getting half-hard again just from the teasing, he was getting hard just from Arthur _like this_ , undone and frantic, his usual decorum stripped down to predatory _need_. He reached for Arthur's cock, wrapping his fingers around it, managing one stroke before Arthur took his wrist and made him stop, taking his hand and shoving it aside.

Arthur broke the kiss then, sitting back. He wedged a knee between Merlin's, taking one of Merlin's legs, pushing it up to spread him open. His hand stroked the curve of Merlin's calf, brushing up over the knee, teasing down the thigh on the outside before heading back to the knee again, coming back down, slower still, to rub and fondle Merlin's balls.

His fingertips brushed Merlin's hole once, twice, three times, and each touch brought Merlin's hips up from the bed, aching for more.

"Thought you... Thought you wanted to wait until... Until we were home?" Merlin gasped.

"Fuck it," Arthur growled. There was something intense and terrifying in the way he was looking at Merlin now, his eyes dark and completely, utterly unguarded, betraying the depths of emotions that he normally kept under wraps. "I could have lost you today."

"I... You didn't. You won't."

Arthur stopped Merlin from saying anything more with a heady kiss that stole his breath, pulling away a moment later to fumble on the bed until he found what he was looking for. He tore open a packet, spilling lube onto his hand, letting it drip down onto Merlin's cock, onto his balls. Arthur's hand was electrifying when he slid down to massage between Merlin's legs, his fingers teasing around, around, and around, until Merlin spread his legs wider, pushing his hips out, _wanting_ \--

Finally, the horrible teasing stopped, and Merlin was rewarded with the light pressure of a single finger, slowly sliding in, drawing out, sliding in again, the motion repeating with deeper thrusts each time until Merlin gasped, crying out a little, to feel Arthur just barely brushing his prostate.

"So tight. God. So fucking gorgeous, Merlin," Arthur whispered, his breath hot against Merlin's neck. A second finger pressed against his hole, slow, giving him time to relax, to get used to the intrusion. It had been _so_ long since... Arthur's fingers thrust in and out, slick with lube, loosening him, working him open. A third finger -- and Merlin made a soft keening sound, because he _couldn't fucking wait and would you bloody hurry and fuck me_ \--

Arthur must have heard him, because his fingers thrust in and out a few more torturous times before leaving Merlin completely empty and wanting. A foil wrapper crinkled, tore. There was a shift of weight on the bed, and Merlin pushed himself up on his elbows a little, watching as Arthur slid the condom on.

He nearly came again just at the sight of Arthur like that, his hard cock in hand, his hair mussed, his lips red and full.

Arthur knelt between Merlin's legs, reaching up to lift his hips, adjusting the angle, arranging his legs up, wider, and --

" _Fuck_ ," Merlin breathed, feeling the heavy press of Arthur's cock against his hole, pushing, pushing in, so, so slowly that Merlin nearly screamed in impatience, in want, in need.

Arthur was seated all the way in. Merlin could feel the ruffle of Arthur's pubic hair against his balls, could hear Arthur's soft, soft whisper repeating itself over and over, _ohgodMerlin_. And yet Arthur didn't move. He leaned down to kiss Merlin instead, worrying Merlin's lower lip.

Merlin wrapped his legs around Arthur's waist and _squeezed_ , pulling Arthur against him, managing only to rock them both fruitlessly. "For fuck's sake, Arthur. _Move_."

There was a throaty, needy laugh from Arthur, a deep rumble against Merlin's ear, but Arthur's hips shifted, pulling out only in the smallest of movements, thrusting into in equal measure. His next thrust was deeper; the one after that deeper still, and it was as if a dam called restraint split and cracked clean down the middle, because Arthur's hips snapped into Merlin with abandon, fucking in a smooth, perfect rhythm that struck Merlin's prostate until he couldn't hold himself back anymore, his cock pulsing spilling come onto his belly. Arthur's motions jerked, his hips stuttered, and the pulse of Arthur's orgasm prolonged Merlin's own.

Arthur collapsed on top of Merlin, breathing hard, syllables -- nonsense syllables -- drifting to Merlin's ear. Merlin turned his head and caught Arthur's lips, and kissed him.

They stayed like that for a while, their lips brushing gentle kisses on each other, mumbling things under their breath that neither one of them could understand, except Merlin knew what he was trying to say, and only wished to say them the way they needed to be said.

_You're perfect. I love you._

Arthur pulled out, removing the condom and tossing it somewhere beyond the edge of the bed. He tugged at the blankets, shoving at Merlin's legs. "Come on. Get in."

"Too well-fucked to move," Merlin mumbled. He was shifted around by strong arms, rearranged on the bed, the blankets falling on top of him -- on top of them -- in a cool wash of air that quickly warmed. Arthur stretched out against him, lying on his side, his arm around Merlin's waist, pressing a chaste kiss on his shoulder. "Shouldn't we be --?"

"No."

"But the thing --?"

"Later."

Merlin half-chuckled, but the laughter faded and he sobered. "How was your meeting?"

Arthur's expression clouded, not quite hardening. "Business got taken care of."

Merlin took that to mean that Valiant was dead. On the one hand, their cover would be preserved. On the other...

"Gwaine?"

Arthur didn't answer. He rolled onto his back. Merlin followed him, staying close, not wanting to break contact.

"Will he be all right?"

"We'll see," Arthur said, rubbing his eyes with one hand, pulling Merlin closer with the other. Merlin settled on his stomach, half-pressed against Arthur, resting his head on Arthur's shoulder. They didn't speak for a while, comfortable in the silence. Merlin closed his eyes, drowsing, stirred awake by Arthur's shrug. "So. You never answered my question."

"Which one?"

"When I called you, before. When you were in the shop." Arthur turned his head, his lips brushing Merlin's forehead. "You called me your boyfriend?"

Merlin felt the heat colouring his cheeks. "I guess I did?"

There was a long silence, filled with nothing but Arthur's strong, steady heartbeat and the faint ruffle of his breathing against Merlin's skin. The silence was maddening. Merlin lifted his chin to look at Arthur.

There was a small, soft, happy smile on his lips.

 

ooOOoo

 

"Why do I have to go again?"

Arthur glanced in the reflection of the mirror, but Merlin still hadn't come out of the bathroom. He shook his head, adjusted his bow tie, and reached for his cuff links. The Pendragon family crest was in gold against a crimson background on the heirlooms, passed on to Arthur from his grandfather, the colour only slightly faded from the number of times that Arthur passed his thumb over the fine details.

"Why do I have to wear this? I look ridiculous," Merlin said.

"I seriously doubt that," Arthur muttered under his breath. Lean, long, lithe -- Merlin was gorgeous no matter what he wore, from a pair of ratty jeans that barely clung to his hips to lying starkers in Arthur's bed. For a brief moment, he thought that Morgana would have taken Merlin to a costume shop in a fit of pique, and _really_ put Merlin in a literal penguin suit, but her tastes were even more impeccable than his own when it came to fashion, and he knew that she wouldn't do anything that would embarrass the family.

At least, not overtly.

"I can't even tie the stupid _tie_!" Merlin wailed.

Arthur leaned forward, hands on the dresser, his head bowed, and tried very hard to muffle his laughter. He wasn't very successful.

Merlin heard him. "Quit laughing! It's not funny!"

"Just come out of there, _Mer_ lin. I'll help you with your tie."

Merlin came out a second later, holding out the thin, long piece of fabric as if it were a dead snake, and Arthur was struck more with how _gorgeous_ Merlin looked, even if he wasn't in full tuxedo just yet. Morgana had done an excellent job dressing Merlin, even if he had hated every minute of the shopping trip. The trousers were full, with a pinched press rather than a full pleat, streamlining Merlin's legs without the billow of too much fabric or the rigidity that would make him look skinnier than he really was. His white shirt was a rich, fitted linen, hugging Merlin's chest; there was enough billows at the shoulders and arms to give him leave to move, but the overall effect made Arthur think of a ballet dancer, with the cling and hug of close-fitted clothing at the core, and just enough flair at the fringes to keep Merlin from looking like a waif.

Merlin was in seven states of disarray. He was barefooted; Arthur knew for a fact that there were several pairs of black silk socks in one of the shopping bags. His shirt, though tucked in, was partially open at the throat, and the unbuttoned wrist cuffs flapped in the air as he walked. The waistcoat and cummerbund had been flung onto a chair and left there with seemingly no intention of ever putting them on. There was the wrinkled shambles of a tie, looking very much like a _strangled_ snake, the way it hung in a limp twist in Merlin's hand.

"Didn't your mother teach you how to dress?" Arthur asked, taking the tie and flinging it over his shoulder, reaching for Merlin's arms. He straightened the sleeves and buttoned the cuffs, holding Merlin still to clasp on a pair of subtle, black mother-of-pearl cuff links that Morgana had found _somewhere_ , though how Leon had gotten Morgana anywhere near a jewellery store, and not spent a bloody fortune in the process, was something of a divine mystery.

"Of course she did," Merlin said, rolling his eyes. "Using _normal_ clothes. These aren't normal. It feels as if I'm... I'm... I'm in a straightjacket!"

"There are some of us who thinks you belong in one," Arthur said, swatting Merlin's hands aside to button his shirt. "Lesson number one. In order to tie a bow tie, your shirt actually needs to be done up."

"I can do it," Merlin muttered.

"Apparently not," Arthur said. He caught Merlin's hands, pulling them down to leave his arms by his sides. His fingers lingered on Merlin's chest when the last button was fastened, and he felt an improbable surge of affection for the man staring at him wryly, squirming and fidgeting. "Stop that."

"It itches."

"It doesn't itch."

"It itches," Merlin insisted, reaching to loosen the collar. Arthur batted his hand away again.

"It doesn't itch. Now stay still." Arthur moved behind Merlin, lifting up the collar of his shirt, pushing down slightly on Merlin's shoulders to give himself a bit of a height advantage. He smoothed out the bow tie, slid it around Merlin's throat, and got on with the tying and knotting. He'd been doing his own bow tie since he was a child and could do it blind with one hand behind his back, but he took his time, watching Merlin in the mirror, petulant and impatient with the whole process.

Then Arthur pressed a kiss behind Merlin's ear, and the _sullen_ melted out of Merlin's expression, softening his eyes. "You'll have to learn how to do this yourself, _Mer_ lin. For next time."

Merlin's eyes widened. "What do you mean, the next time?"

"We'll have other events to attend. You know that. You were there with us, weren't you, when we were briefed?" Arthur went to retrieve the other parts of Merlin's wardrobe, chuckling at the look of dismay that crossed his features.

"Is it too late to quit?"

"You'd leave me to this alone?" Arthur asked, standing behind Merlin. He wrapped the cummerbund around Merlin's waist, taking his time, relishing in the shivers he could draw from Merlin just from this simple act. He handed Merlin a pair of socks. "Put these on."

"You're not going to put them on for me?" Merlin asked cheekily.

"I think you can manage your own socks."

There was a knock on the door, but before either of them could ask who it was, Morgana swept in, her hair pinned up in a sophisticated twist, her makeup impeccable, bringing out the green sparkle in her eyes and the undertones of her deep burgundy gown. The gown's long skirt swept around her like a princess dress, light and silky, a ripple of two or three different shades giving the fabric a three dimensional shimmer. The skirt was collected into a skin-tight off-the-shoulder bodice that was barely covering her breasts at the moment. One arm was around her waist, holding the skirt in place, the other had a satiny little purse tucked in the crook of her elbow. Morgana turned around, offering them her back.

"Leon abandoned me to help Lance with the gear, and I can't find Gwen," she said without preamble, sounding this side of vexed. Arthur could read between the lines -- Leon needed a break from Morgana and had escaped at his first opportunity. "Can one of you zip me up?"

"Busy putting on my socks," Merlin said, waving one of the offending objects in the air as if he were waving a flag of surrender. "Because, apparently, it's the only thing I know how to do."

"What are you on about?" Morgana asked. "Arthur, will you --"

Arthur came up behind Morgana, tugged up the dress, and zipped it up in one deft movement -- like bow ties, helping Morgana into her often-scandalous dresses was something he'd been doing since he was young. "He lost his battle with the tie."

"Oh, Merlin," Morgana said, trying to sound sympathetic, but it was hard to fully convey sympathy when she was laughing. "Claude spent a half hour showing you how!"

"When he wasn't busy showing me how to tie the bloody thing, he was grabbing my arse, so excuse me if I don't remember all the steps required to put on a _completely useless_ piece of wardrobe," Merlin grumbled. He reached for his shoes -- new shoes, Arthur noted -- and put them on. "You look lovely, by the way."

Morgana twirled on the spot, and the skirt swished around her exactly the way it was supposed to, with a sultry, seductive wave.

"Thank you. So do you," she said.

"What about me?" Arthur asked, shrugging on his coat.

"There's absolutely no need to feed your already oversized ego with false praise," Morgana said, and Merlin bowed his head, his eyes crinkling in suppressed laughter. Morgana opened her tiny little purse, rummaged around -- there shouldn't be enough _room_ in there to lose anything, but apparently there was -- until she found several square envelopes. She handed one to Arthur. "Your invitation, not that you'll need it. I'll see you there."

Morgana left the room in the same bustle of movement as she came in, but Arthur was used to her constant ins and outs and didn't pay her any more mind. He collected a few more items, pocketed his wallet, and strapped on his watch before he realized that Merlin was staring at the spot where Morgana had been. "This barging-in thing she does -- is it going to happen a lot?"

"Yes," Arthur deadpanned. "Best get used to it. At least she knocked this time, although I'm sure she's only knocking because she knows you're in here. She never knocks for me. Are you ready?"

"Uh. Yes. Um. Wait --" Merlin dug around his backpack, retrieved several small objects, and patted his coat until he found all the pockets that he could slip them into. "Wish you'd let me have a gun."

"We're going to a gala at the Louvre, _Mer_ lin, not gearing up for a full assault," Arthur said. Arthur didn't have a gun either -- at least, not unless the one strapped to his calf counted. Perceval and Bohrs would be armed, and Arthur was certain that Gwaine and Kay would get into the Louvre with a small armoury hidden in their jackets.

A pang of guilt struck him then. Neither Merlin nor Arthur had left bedroom since they arrived, and he didn't know if Gwaine was all right, or if he was even fit to come.

"Aredian's going to be there," Merlin reminded him.

"That's the rumour, yeah," Arthur said. "He might not show. Even if he shows, nothing might happen."

"With our luck?" Merlin asked.

"With our luck, something will, and we'll handle it, Merlin," Arthur said. He slid a hand around Merlin's shoulders, his fingers ruffling his hair. "Besides, _you_ don't need a gun, yeah?"

Merlin swatted his hand away. "Quit it. You're messing up my hair."

"Looks better this way," Arthur said smugly, leading the way out of the bedroom.

Leon and Morgana had already gone ahead with Lance and Owain. Perceval and Kay waited for them on the landing; Arthur could only assume that Bohrs was waiting for them in the car, and that Gwaine wouldn't be coming along. Gwen lingered in the doorway, dressed in a plain skirt and a pale pink sweater, her arms crossed over her breasts, her lips tugged in an expression of petulance. Arthur walked over to her and tugged on her hair, raising both brows.

"How much do you hate me right now?"

"A lot," Gwen said, raising her chin, tilting her head to the side, giving him the sidelong _get away from me, you peasant_ glance that Arthur was sure she'd perfected from hanging out with Morgana a bit too much, but there was a small smile to her lips, because Gwen could never truly hate anyone.

"Didn't Lance tell you about the apartment?"

"He did."

Arthur could see Gwen's resistance crumbling, and she was struggling to keep from smiling. "And that doesn't make you hate me a little less?"

"Only a little," Gwen sighed, uncrossing her arms. She glanced past him to look at Merlin, where he was standing next to Perceval, looking gorgeous and nervous all at once. "That makes me feel better."

"What, him?"

" _What, him?_ " Gwen mimicked, crossing her eyes. "You know I mean you two. It's about time, Arthur. You look happy."

All things aside -- the missions, the training, the tensions, the Directory, the NWO -- Arthur _was_ happy. The few hours spent with Merlin in a quiet room, relatively undisturbed except for the passing footsteps outside the door, their limbs tangled in impossible contortions that he had hoped no one would ever unknot -- Arthur had been the calmest that he had been in a long time. There had been no list-making in his head, no obsessing over the slightest detail, no planning ahead for every possible permutation of movements on a complicated chessboard that had too many players. There had been none of that. Just him and Merlin.

They'd drifted off to sleep like that, Merlin lying against Arthur's side, his temple on Arthur's shoulder; Arthur's arm around him to hold him close. He'd startled himself awake a few times, but each time he would drift back to a profound sleep, reassured that Merlin was still there, still in his arms.

The first time he woke up, staring down at Merlin, his breath caught in his chest and _hurt_ , because there had been something so perfect in the way that Merlin laid on Arthur's shoulder, his hair ruffled, his eyelashes heavy and dark, sleep stripping away everything that he kept protected -- his heart, his soul.

Merlin wore his emotions on his sleeve. But it had been different, then, to catch Merlin like this, a fragile innocence surrendered to Arthur's protection.

It was then that Arthur had understood why he couldn't breathe -- it had sunk in, at that moment, just how important Merlin was, and how Arthur had very nearly completely lost him.

To a rugby player.

The story that Merlin had given him hadn't sounded right, but he didn't have the heart to wake him up to hear the story again. The truth was, he hadn't been paying much attention the first time around. Arthur hadn't been able to help thinking that if the rugby player had been any sort of professional, he would have shot Morgana to get her out of the way before grabbing Merlin.

But then, Arthur hadn't had much more time to think about it, because Merlin had grumbled sleepily in his sleep, curling tightly against Arthur.

It had been adorable.

Arthur gave Gwen a little smile, because _happy_ was too mild a word for how he felt right now, and he bent down to kiss her cheek, nodding when he heard her warn, like she always did when they left to go back to active duty, "Keep them safe."

Perceval was the first of them out the door; Merlin on his heels, Kay right behind. Arthur walked down the front steps, slowing down when he saw Gwaine leaning against the car, dressed in a tuxedo that looked more _I sleep in this suit_ thrown-together on him than on anyone else, looking tired but relaxed and calm. Arthur shot a glance at Perceval, who nodded faintly but gave no other indication of what he'd done to help Gwaine through this latest crisis, and walked over to Gwaine.

They stared at each other for a moment; it was Gwaine who broke eye contact first, shrugging his shoulder with the irritation of someone who hadn't quite managed to get the shoulder holster to sit the way it needed to sit.

"You don't have to come," Arthur said, tilting his head to catch his eye.

"Yeah, I do," Gwaine said, glancing over the roof of the Lincoln Continental as Merlin slipped inside. "You've got Perce and Bohrs watching your back. Morgana and Leon have Lance and O and the double G's. Who's got Merlin's back? That's me and Kay."

 _And me,_ Arthur thought, but he didn't say it out loud, not wanting to cheapen what Gwaine was doing now, putting himself on the line when he was still raw from the mission earlier in the day. Instead, Arthur bowed his head and nodded. "Thank you."

"You break his heart, I will kick your arse," Gwaine said suddenly. Arthur's eyes snapped up to meet Gwaine's gaze, seeing the emotion he never could hide very well, the depths of his feelings for Merlin. Before Arthur could speak, Gwaine said, "He was yours from day one. I know that. I never had a chance with him. I know that too. But you hurt him, I can't promise --"

Arthur put a hand on Gwaine's arm and squeezed lightly. "I'm not asking you to. All I want is a running start --"

A quick grin -- real, warm, genuine -- crossed Gwaine's face. A little laugh seeped into his tone. "I'll give you a running start a couple of klicks long, mate. But I'm telling you now, it's not going to help you."

"I can always hope that'll be the one time you miss," Arthur said, and Gwaine's smile relaxed, fading into a chuckle. Arthur clapped his back. "Let's go."

Arthur climbed in the back seat of the car, sliding next to Merlin. Merlin raised an inquiring brow, but Arthur nodded in what he hoped Merlin would understand to mean _everything's all right_. Bohrs was behind the wheel, Perceval climbed into the front passenger seat, and there was a horn honk behind them from the Land Rover that Kay and Gwaine were taking to the gala.

Merlin was staring out the side window as they drove down the highway, watching the distant city lights twinkling. He tapped thumb and forefinger on his knee in a distraction against whatever was swirling around in his head, and Arthur slid his hand up Merlin's leg, leaving it there. Merlin turned to look at him, his eyes a little wide.

"Nothing changes," Arthur said.

A small smile touched Merlin's lips, and he nodded, releasing a held breath. "Nothing changes. We do it like last time?"

They hadn't _talked_ about this the way they should have, when they had the chance, but Arthur wouldn't have traded those few hours of quiet, of simply _being_ with Merlin, for anything.

"After all this time, how do you think you'd be with me?"

Merlin shook his head, shrugging a shoulder. He hadn't thought about it. "Not much different."

"Still not listening to me, _Mer_ lin?" Arthur asked, smirking a little.

"Fuck, no," Merlin said. Perceval, in the front seat, choked back an amused snort. "Maybe I'd know a bit better what limits I could push."

"Okay," Arthur said. He nodded. "That could work."

Merlin's hand squeezed his. "What limits can I push?"

"Oh, I don't know, Merlin. Maybe you could keep your mouth shut sometimes. Stay close by. Not wander away to talk to random people. No flirting with anyone who's not me. Definitely no letting tailors named Claude grab your arse when you're getting a lesson on how to tie your bow tie."

Bohrs burst out laughing this time, quickly sobering when he caught Arthur's dark glare in the reflection of the mirror.

"Sorry. I'll be good, I promise," Bohrs said. He snickered a few more times. Arthur waited, and there was another giggle.

"Starting now?"

"Starting now," Bohrs confirmed.

Merlin was grinning. Arthur half-chuckled, but he shook off Merlin's hand to reach into his jacket, pulling out his cell phone to stop the vibrating. "Here's the scenario. This is a formal event with the crème de la crème in the business. It doesn't matter how much glitz they spray on the occasion or how much nice music the four-piece orchestra squeaks out. It's an occasion to rub elbows with potential business partners and schmooze with other big buyers."

"Okay." Merlin nodded. He wasn't smiling now, and that meant he was thinking, considering, weighing his options.

"My father has made it exceedingly clear that he doesn't want to hear anything about me being anything other than a suave, charming bastard. I lose one client, just one, and I'm dead. I don't make at least two new clients, I'm dead. If I don't do what he tells me to do, he cuts off my trust fund. You've heard me bitch and moan about it."

"Okay," Merlin said again, sounding unsure.

"I'm a bit of a control freak. Having to do what my father tells me to do aggravates me. What do you think it'll be like for you?"

"Christ," Merlin muttered. "You'll be keeping me on a short leash."

"Yes." Arthur tried not to think of the mental image of Merlin in nothing but a short leash. He swallowed. "And you know better than to make it worse."

"Or else what?" Merlin raised a brow. "Do you beat me?"

Arthur flinched inwardly, thinking about Gwaine's threat. "I may have raised my hand to you a few times."

"Okay," Merlin said, quiet, calm, contemplative, accepting that so easily that Arthur's breath caught at the _trust_ that implied. "Been a bit rough with me? Tied me up? Cracked the whip at me? Broken my fingers?"

Arthur gasped a short laugh and took Merlin's hand, raising it in the air. "These lovely, money-making fingers of yours? These gorgeous, magic fingers that can crack any encryption code I put in front of them? I wouldn't break these fingers."

"Ha. Okay. But the other things?"

Arthur stared at Merlin. He didn't answer.

"Arthur?"

"I'm thinking," Arthur said.

A small, choked sound slipped from Merlin's lips. "Okay."

Arthur's phone buzzed again. He glanced at the caller ID before answering it. "What do you want?"

"Well, hello to you too, sourpuss," Morgana said, sounding highly amused. "Are you on your way?"

"Yes, we are," Arthur said, rolling his eyes. He shifted slightly, impatient, glancing out the window to study the city, trying to decide how far they were to their destination. In this traffic, he estimated, "Twenty minutes. Maybe less."

"Make it a little more," Morgana said. "Then you'll arrive just in time to walk into the keynote speaker's speech and make a lovely grand entrance."

"Aw, are you mad that it wasn't you?" Arthur asked.

"Not this time. You're next up on Uther's shite list. By the way, do you remember Cenred King?" Morgana's voice dipped slightly.

"What about him?" Cenred King was the CEO of King Limited and Pendragon Consulting's greatest rival. Their hardware had nothing on what was coming out of Pendragon's research and development division, but they had larger production lines and could pump out in sheer volume in one month what Pendragon could manage in six. The biggest difference -- and the largest deal-breaker -- was the quality of the final product. More often than not, the biggest government tenders worldwide went to Pendragon Consulting for the priciest, costliest and newest technologies, while King Limited was usually the poor winner of many more smaller tenders, usually to mass-produce infantry weaponry, needing to make up in numbers what they couldn't in large bids.

"He's here," Morgana said.

"I'm not surprised. Did he get wind that the Colonel was going to be at the gala and booked himself a couple of tickets?"

"Something like that, but he's been doing his homework." There was a slight shuffle, and Leon's voice came on the line. "He knows you have Merlin."

A cold flush rand own Arthur's spine. The Lincoln slowed down for traffic, but they weren't far from the Louvre and would be stopping soon. "Hold on. Merlin?"

Merlin glanced at him. "Yeah?"

"King Limited ring any bells to you?"

"Um." Merlin's eyes narrowed slightly. "Yeah. Tried to recruit me straight out of school."

"They know where you ended up?"

Merlin frowned, and shook his head. "No. Shouldn't. I took their card, smiled politely, and said it sounds tempting, but I've got to think about it. Shook hands with the recruiter, fended off a lot of messages with offers, and just, you know. Went into. You know."

Arthur nodded and returned to the phone. "Shouldn't be a problem. Thanks for the warning."

"Morgana wasn't kidding about being late for the keynote speaker." The phone was yanked from Leon's hand, and Morgana said, "Please, for the love of God, make as much noise as you can coming in. I just saw the old fart walk by. He looks _boring_."

Morgana hung up on him before Arthur could respond, shaking his head. He pocketed his phone, thinking for a moment before glancing at Merlin. "Have you ever met Cenred King?"

"Can't say I have." Merlin paused. "Should I worry?"

Arthur considered. On the one hand, the less Merlin knew, the more genuine his reactions would be -- and Merlin was an awful liar. On the other hand... "If he offers you a job --"

"I'll tell him I don't need a job. I'm a kept man, aren't I?"

Perceval started laughing.

Arthur would've smacked Perceval in the head if he hadn't been so distracted by the way Merlin fluttered his eyelashes at him. "Shite. Stop that. Both of you."

"I'm not laughing, boss," Bohrs provided helpfully.

"I see that. Drop us off up ahead. Perce --"

"Already letting them know," Perceval said, bringing his phone to his ear. Bohrs pulled over, Gwaine and Kay coming up behind them. Gwaine was out of the car and making his way toward them, opening the passenger door. Arthur slid out, but he didn't wait for Merlin; he walked ahead with Perceval to the Pyramid entrance in front of the Louvre.

Gwaine and Merlin followed behind him. The cars drove off; the team had booked two rooms at the Hôtel du Louvre and were using that as a staging area. Kay and Bohrs would park the cars and catch up with them inside the Louvre.

Arthur took a deep, steadying breath, and put on his best, bored expression.

The crowd lingering around the reception area was thin and watery, full of servers with trays of canapés and champagne flutes and tuxedoed men and gowned women who had no interest in listening to the speaker welcome them to the gala, to list the evening's schedule, to introduce the important people, and to make the familiar plea for money for whatever charitable organization the evening's profits were going toward.

Arthur snatched a glass from the tray of a passing server, throwing it back before leaving the empty glass on the central information desk, glancing over in time to frown at Merlin just as he made an attempt for a glass himself. Merlin caught his look, drew back his hand, and shrugged a shoulder with disappointment.

Merlin was shite at holding his alcohol; with the possibility of encountering Aredian looming on the horizon, Arthur needed Merlin sober and conscious.

Also, the champagne was a tiny step up from the base beer swill they had no choice but to drink, which ran the risk of having Merlin up all night, hugging the toilet.

Arthur took another champagne flute, this time from a server who stopped in front of him, and held onto it with no intention of doing anything but nursing his drink and leaving full glasses all over the Louvre to give the impression that he'd been drinking heavily.

Just like a spoilt brat who had just received orders from his overbearing father would do. Drink heavily. Make a spectacle of himself. Embarrass dear old dad.

At some point, Arthur would laugh at the irony of the situation. His _life_ mirrored his cover story, except instead of turning into a class-A arse with a drinking problem, Arthur had taken out -- still took out -- his frustrations on the firing range.

There had at least been that outlet.

"So I hear your Uther couldn't make it, and he sent you in his stead," a familiar voice said behind him. "How disappointing."

"Cenred," Arthur said without turning around. "I thought the canapés smelled rotten, but I see it's you."

There was a short, humourless laugh. "Always a pleasure to see you, Arthur. How has the company been doing?"

"If the stock reports, the quarterly financials, and the number of tenders that we yank out of your greedy little hands are any indication, then we're doing rather well," Arthur said, turning around.

Cenred was what Uther considered a "young upstart" -- someone with no military experience worth mentioning and who had completed the minimum amount of time in the British Army that was required to gather the background and contacts he needed to move the company forward. Within five years, he'd taken over the mantle from his father, and while Cenred's cutthroat tactics had moved King Limited up the business ranks, he could never break through the Pendragon Consulting barricade.

It didn't stop him from trying, though.

Arthur hadn't been there the day that Cenred overheard Uther insult him in front of several collaborating manufacturers, but he'd heard the story told and retold several times. "I may be young, but that just means that I have more lasting power than an old coot like you. And if you're calling me an _upstart_ , I consider that a compliment, because you just watch. I'm going to be changing the industry and leaving you behind in the dirt."

Uther had been furious, and only because two of the people he had been talking to became interested in Cenred King. They jumped ships to supply King Limited with weaponry a week later.

"That's about the extent of your involvement in the company, isn't it?" Cenred asked. He was finely dressed in a tailored tuxedo, his wavy short hair styled _au courant_ , a cultivated two-day scruff of stubble giving him a roguish look to rival Gwaine's natural state. "I heard that Uther has had you running the mailroom since your discharge."

Arthur pressed his lips together and forced a thin smile. "No wonder your company is doing so poorly, if you waste your time listening to idle gossip. Tell me, what else have you heard?"

Cenred's eyes flicked to something -- _someone_ \-- behind Arthur. "That someone's cracked Pendragon code."

Arthur didn't rise to the bait. "Is that right?"

"That Uther's _pissed_ ," Cenred said, smirking faintly, sipping his champagne. He paused, and added, "But mostly because instead of recruiting him for the company, you turned around and shagged him instead."

Cenred didn't wait for Arthur to respond. He moved past Arthur, extending an arm to a startled Merlin, who stared at Cenred for a wide-eyed moment before shaking his hand. "Merlin Emrys. I've heard a lot about you. If you're looking for a job --"

"Um." Merlin smiled faintly and faltered, glancing at Arthur with an expression mixed between complete confusion and _please help me, what do I do?_

"Merlin's with me," Arthur said, a sharp edge to his voice. He gestured for Merlin to come to him, which Merlin did, taking a long, apologetic, nearly _flirtatious_ route around Cenred, as if he were expecting Cenred to pounce at any moment and was inviting him to do so. Arthur stopped short of yanking at Merlin's arm to make him stop -- Merlin ducked his head and looked away, withering a little under Arthur's glare. "If you'll excuse us."

He took Merlin's arm and _pulled_ him away, slamming his untouched champagne flute on a glass case protecting what might have been a precious bust of someone or other, making sure that the flute impacted with enough force to skid and skitter, tipping over to spill the contents on the case before the crystal rolled off and crashed to the ground.

He dragged Merlin after him, letting go only to pull open the shut doors to the hall where the majority of the party-goers were assembled to listen to the keynote speaker. The doors crashed open like the clang of a gong, and Arthur stormed inside, down the steps, spotting a few empty seats somewhere right in the middle of the small auditorium.

He headed there, Merlin following, muttering apologies that Arthur didn't bother making, ensuring that he disrupted the speech as much as possible and drew attention to themselves.

They were rewarded with hostile, venomous glares from the hoity-toity older generation who completely disapproved of anyone younger than forty, by the amused glances of several people, but, more importantly, by Morgana's beaming smile when the speaker stumbled in his speech and lost his place.

 

ooOOoo

 

Arthur was gorgeous in his fitted Oscar de la Renta trimmed lapel tuxedo, and there was something about Arthur acting like an over-confident, fully-entitled, possessive _prat_ that had Merlin's mind veering into a _completely inappropriate_ mindset for a formal charity-fundraising-slash-business gala. Unfortunately, it wasn't as if he had a lot of other choices when it came to distractions, because all the conversations in the crowd fell in the downright boring category -- business this and fashion that and art nouveau something-or-other, and the sum total of Merlin's contributions to any conversations was a hapless "Um, yes?" or "Um, no?" depending on how well he happened to read the body language of the person expecting an answer.

More often than not, his guesswork was correct, but Merlin didn't think that the person he happened to be speaking to at the time really cared _how_ he answered, as long as he looked as if he were paying attention.

Merlin had drifted away from Arthur only twice -- once when the crowd was thin enough that Arthur's territorial tendencies were satisfied because he could keep an eye on Merlin without something blocking his view, the second time when he had to nip off to the loo (and wasn't that awkward, trying to get the cummerbund back in place?) with Kay and Gwaine following after him while he took the long, circuitous route through a tiny portions of the Louvre's galleries before catching up to Arthur again.

Cenred King had tried to approach him that second time, but Gwaine had lingered back, smiled pleasantly, and shaken his head, discouraging King from coming any closer. Merlin was grateful; he wasn't sure what he would have to say to the man, considering that he remembered, now, how _generous_ the hiring offer had been when he'd been right out of school. It had been tempting, but...

Merlin breathed a sigh.

There were plenty of beautiful people at the gala. There were plenty of rich people at the gala. There were plenty of beautiful and rich people at the gala, and he was neither. He resisted -- for what must be the umpteenth time -- the urge to fidget and pluck at his tuxedo, trying to emulate the calm ease that everyone else was wearing their hangman's knot. The only reason Merlin kept from tugging at his bow tie was because _Arthur_ had fastened it for him, and Merlin could still feel the way Arthur's hands had pressed on his shoulders and his arms had enfolded him.

Morgana was in her element. She was the social butterfly who knew everyone there, and if she didn't know someone, she made it her business to meet them, learn their names, and make an association. Leon was at her side the entire time, and he must have had some practice escorting Morgana to these kind of events, because he was his usual charming self, if a bit aloof, standing aside without being overbearing and letting Morgana shine. People _flocked_ to Morgana, finding a reason, however trite, to speak with her, and she treated each and everyone as if they had come to her with the most important thing in the world.

Where Morgana was the darling of the gala, it seemed that Arthur was the jewel, because he was Uther Pendragon's son, and the heir to both the family fortune and the business that everyone wanted a stake in. It had been a game for Merlin, to watch the way people approached Arthur, feeling him out, nibbling at him like sharks coming in for a quick and little taste to see if he was edible. They would feel him out, drawn in by Arthur's confidence, put off by his sharp, acerbic charisma, returning only because there was a particular _freshness_ and honesty in Arthur's attitude that they liked, even if Arthur was something of an annoying, arrogant prat. As Merlin watched, keeping score in his head, Arthur had not only managed to charm the pants out of existing clients who wanted to see for themselves whether Pendragon junior was up to the task of spearheading the company when and if Uther ever retired, and had lured in at least six new clients who promptly went to speak to Morgana to acquire business cards, because apparently, Arthur couldn't be arsed to carry his own. The other manufacturers and rival companies at the gala had poked and prodded at Arthur, testing for weak spots, and walked away relatively unscathed -- though they wouldn't feel the sting of Arthur's words until much, much later.

None of them had any idea that Arthur was the biggest shark of them all. They might have nibbled at him for a taste, but Arthur had lured them in without wasting any energy whatsoever, and had gotten himself a nice meal out of it.

The only person to worry Merlin was Cenred King. King hadn't tried to approach Arthur again, but Merlin had caught him watching Arthur speculatively, as if weighing the rumours of an unhappy, strained father-son relationship against a gambit to lure Arthur over to his side. Merlin had not missed the way King had glanced from Arthur to Merlin to Arthur again, as if understanding that hooking one was tantamount to getting the other with minimum effort.

Arthur had noticed it, too, because, when he'd taken yet another champagne flute out of Merlin's hand, he'd raised an admonishing brow and said, "Don't worry about him."

So Merlin didn't, not for now, mostly because Gwaine was keeping King away.

Merlin had managed not to make a complete fool of himself in polite conversation with several people, but _he_ wasn't of interest here, not hardly at all. No, Arthur was the centerpiece here, and everyone wanted a slice.

Like now.

Arthur had been cornered by someone who was Very Important to the Pendragon business, only because Uther hadn't been able to acquire him as a client, but now it was looking as if Arthur was going to be able to do just that. Merlin had moved off, because he understood that despite the Directory games, there was still a personal stake in all this. The company really would be Arthur's someday.

Merlin lingered nearby -- Arthur could see him without turning his head -- and glanced around. There wasn't anyone to talk to. Gwaine and Kay were "on the job", Lance was somewhere in the crowd, keeping an eye from afar, and Leon was with Morgana, talking to --

Merlin tilted his head, frowning slightly. The crowd drifted and moved, blocking his view.

There had been something familiar -- but the crowd didn't shift aside enough for him to see. Gwaine noticed him and glanced around, then, calmly, as if he weren't about to go find what had caught Merlin's attention, wandered off, leaving Kay with Merlin.

It was late, but the party was still going strong. Some of the outer galleries had been closed, some people had left, the classical quartet had been replaced by a different group, and the champagne was no longer circulating. Finger food ranging from cheesy appetizers to meaty wraps to sweet cream puffs and mounds of carved, sculpted fruit had been laid out, and Merlin's stomach grumbled. The tables were too far away, and he wanted to wait until Gwaine was back before he tried to get out of Arthur's line of sight and went for the food.

He leaned against the bar, hands in his pockets, looking around. He saw Morgana again, but not the people that she was talking to.

Someone came to stand against the bar next to him. Merlin glanced at what was yet another tuxedo, and slid a little out of his way.

"Brandy," the man beside him said. There was a shift of movement, and Merlin heard, "What are you drinking?"

It took Merlin a moment to realize that the man was talking to him. "Huh? Um. No. Thanks."

"Gin and tonic for the gentleman," the man besides Merlin said, and the bartender went to prepare the drinks.

"Oh, thanks, but I'm not drinking tonight," Merlin said, half-turning. The crowd parted again, just enough for him to see the laughing blonde woman talking to Morgana and Leon. She looked familiar, somehow, but it wasn't until Merlin saw the rugby player standing next to the woman, his mouth curled in something that could be mistaken for a smile, that all the pieces fit together.

The couple from the VIP lounge in Germany.

_Shite!_

He started to push himself from the bar when he simultaneously caught sight of Gwaine working his way through the crowd toward Morgana and Leon, and realized that the man beside him was speaking.

"Not drinking? Well, that is simply suicidal. I can't fathom anyone surviving this sorry to-do without some sort of liquid courage to bolster the spirit," the man said. He had a slow, unhurried way of speaking, the rumble of rolling syllables, and it was a mix of British posh and something exotic. "Here you are, my good man."

Merlin's mind was fretting with _Morgana. Leon. Rugby player. Trouble. Gwaine_ , and didn't have time to process the shock of standing next to Jonathan Aredian.

Aredian was far more imposing in person than he was in photographs, no matter how blurred or pixelated they were. His short white-blond hair was brushed back from his face, curling in light waves over his ears and the nape of his neck. His eyes were pale and steely, with the slightest air of being forever-calculating while simultaneously relaxing to enjoy watching everyone else squirm. He had a short, distinguished beard strengthening an already square jar, lips that were faintly downturned in disapproval, and the look of a man who only gave someone else more than a few moments of his time because he judged them worthy of it.

There was a glass of clear liquid over ice, garnished with a slim slice of lime, in Aredian's hand, offered up for Merlin. He raised a brow, and gestured again to the glass.

"You look like a gin and tonic man."

Merlin hesitated and took the drink with a small, grateful nod. "Thank you."

"Cheers," Aredian said, sipping his brandy. Merlin took a cautious sip of the gin and tonic, gratified that it did taste like a gin and tonic, though he was sure that there were any number of undetectable poisons that could do him in, and he'd never know. He caught Arthur looking at him, still holding court with several men, and slowly, deliberately, turned away, putting the glass on the bar.

"I probably shouldn't."

Aredian did something ballsy -- and that was to follow Merlin's over-the-shoulder glance at Arthur, and raise his glass. "Lovely charmer you have there, though I do notice he keeps you on a short leash."

Merlin shrugged. "He's all right."

"I'm Jonathan," Aredian said, shifting his glass from his right hand to his left, offering his hand to Merlin. Merlin lowered his head in the sort of shy, awkward gesture that he couldn't help doing, and after a heartbeat, shook Aredian's hand.

And promptly wanted to scrub it clean with lye. "I'm Merlin."

"And that," Aredian said, gesturing once more with his glass, "Is Arthur Pendragon."

"Um. Yeah." Merlin scratched his cheek. A short silence trickled, and Merlin tried to come up with some small talk that didn't sound as lame as it did in his head. Aredian saved him.

"He's a difficult man to approach." Aredian paused. "So what is it that you do? For young mister Pendragon?"

Merlin ducked his head again, feeling a hot flush colouring his cheeks.

"Ah, so it's like that, hey?" Aredian said, sounding amused. Merlin shrugged a shoulder again, not making eye contact, sensing that Aredian got off on watching people be uncomfortable. After a minute or so, Aredian said, "I did mean in a business sense. Unless that's all there is?"

The way Aredian raised a slight, questioning brow made Merlin laugh a little nervously.

"Well, yes. I mean, no. I mean. Well. Um." Merlin turned to face Aredian, an elbow on the table, shooting a glance toward Arthur, but Arthur was in deep conversation with someone new. "Computer systems. Programming, design, builds. Telecommunications. Encryption. That sort of thing. That's what I do."

"Ah, so you are _the_ Merlin Emrys I've been hearing about?" Aredian asked.

Merlin chuckled. "Not that many Merlins around here, are there?"

"No, no, I suppose not," Aredian said, smirking. He sipped his brandy slowly, tilting his head to the side to look at Merlin appraisingly. "It's an interesting line of work that you're in. Quite a bit of demand for good people in the encryption business. Everyone wants the unbreakable, and everyone wants it broken, _ja_?"

"Something like that, yeah," Merlin said. "What about you?"

"Ah, that." Aredian paused, waving his glass in the air in a small, controlled circle. "I am a facilitator."

"And what do you facilitate?" Merlin glanced at the gin and tonic on the bar, contemplating _what's the harm_ of taking another drink, because he was talking to the enemy, and they were making casual conversation, _for fuck's sake_.

Aredian noticed. "Oh, do go on. Liquid courage and all that. Surely your young mister Pendragon shan't be too cross."

Merlin chuckled dryly. "Never know with him."

"Yes, well. Everyone is more than they seem. Don't worry." Aredian paused, and Merlin suffered the quiet under Aredian's coldly evaluating stare. " _Dw i'n deall._ "

Merlin shivered.

_I understand._

In Welsh.

Merlin frowned faintly, forced a small smile on his face, and gave Aredian what he hoped was a confused shake of his head.

"We do what we must," Aredian continued, and Merlin swore he heard a second conversation in the one that they were having. "For example, I facilitate meetings between people who wouldn't normally meet. I facilitate finding unique employees for employers with difficult tasks. I facilitate the location of items that are difficult to find, their transportation to their destination, and their usage."

He paused to sip his drink.

Merlin nodded his head. "I think I'm following. So. You facilitate. That's what you do. Facilitation. That's. Fascinating."

The glass parted from Aredian's lips, and he raised both brows in surprise before barking a small laugh. He lowered his drink and shook his head, as if laughing had surprised even him. " _Ja_. It's fulfilling work. I encounter many unusual things in my occupation. Very unusual. Like you, mister Emrys. No wonder the young Pendragon is absolutely enraptured. You inspire loyalty by being loyal in turn. You push people's limitations, but never cross them. You take a beating, but the fight will never be beaten out of you."

Merlin stared at Aredian, not certain how to respond. If he could even respond. The words that came out of his mouth were an intelligent, "I suppose."

But that was what Aredian wanted to hear, because he left his finished drink on the bar, putting his hand on Merlin's shoulder. "I'm sure our paths will cross again, Merlin. It was a pleasure to meet you."

"Yeah, likewise," Merlin said, and Aredian moved away.

_Shite. Shite. Shite. What am I supposed to do?_

Absolutely nothing. He wasn't supposed to do anything. Aredian was supposed to initiate contact. Preferably with Arthur. Not Merlin. But he'd spoken with Merlin, and hinted that they would have a chat again sometime, and that was... That was what they were supposed to do, yeah?

_Morgana. Leon._

Merlin turned around, scanning the crowd. This time, the groups of people parted conveniently, letting him see what was going on. The rugby player had drifted away; Gwaine had caught up to Leon, and they were both talking animatedly, trying not to be obvious about it as they both craned their necks, looking around.

Merlin spotted Morgana's beautiful, swishy burgundy dress, her distinctive, _air de grâce_ walk. He also saw the blonde woman next to her, her silky black, multi-layered dress drowning out the colour in Morgana's gown.

"Kay," Merlin said, walking up to him. "I'm going to the loo."

"Again, mate?"

Merlin took Kay's arm and smiled as pleasantly as he could while pinching the crook of Kay's elbow. "Tell Arthur that something's going on. That woman from the plane? She's with Morgana."

"Shite!" Kay grabbed Merlin before Merlin could get away. "No. You're not going anywhere alone."

"Then bloody well go and tell him and hurry and catch up," Merlin said, shrugging loose. He slipped through the crowd, trying not to run, and was intercepted by Gwaine and Leon. Lance wasn't far behind them.

"Where did she go?" Leon asked, his voice tense.

"Back that way," Merlin said. Gwaine stepped between him and the corridor. Leon and Lance continued on, and it seemed that Kay moved fast when he wanted to move, because he'd come with Bohrs in tow.

"Stay with Kay," Gwaine ordered, turning away, catching up to Bohrs and the others.

Merlin started to follow them, but Kay caught his arm again. "Merlin. Don't. You know it's our job, not yours."

Merlin didn't answer him. He had a bad feeling. A quick glance around the room didn't tell him much; the nightlife continued on as usual, with the same volume of chatter, unbroken conversations, preening and posturing.

"Come on. Let's go back to Arthur," Kay said. "Nothing that we can do. Perce is calling the others, they'll be out that way in a minute. Maintain your cover, all right?"

Merlin grit his teeth. "All right. Fine."

Several awkward minutes passed before Merlin and Kay managed to find a clear enough path through the crowd to return to Arthur's location, where he was still talking with a few businessmen, smooth and suave as if nothing was going on in the background. Merlin saw a few subtle changes, though. Arthur was standing up straighter instead of slouching. His hand was closing into a fist he was struggling not to clench. He half-turned toward Perceval every time Perceval lowered his head the way he did when he was listening to the conversation over the earwig he was wearing. A muscle was tight in his jaw, his smiles were forced, and it was obvious that his attention was elsewhere.

Obvious to Merlin. The conversation with the other businessman -- an American who had the gall to put his own personal touch on the tuxedo, making him look this side of _déclassé_ with the garish red cummerbund and the matching Western-style zip-up tie -- didn't abate.

Merlin hung back, lingering by the bar. He could tell by the combined expressions on Perceval and Kay that there was something going on; they were just as tense, if not more, than Merlin and Arthur were.

"What's going on?"

"Leave it alone, Merlin," Kay said, sounding grim.

"Kay --"

"They've got it handled, Merlin."

"Do they really?"

"Shut it, Merlin," Kay snapped. Merlin turned away in frustration, and in that moment, caught Arthur's gaze, just as frustrated, if not more, of not knowing what was happening to his men, to his sister. Arthur was their Captain, their leader, the man who could, who _would_ take them through whatever crisis they would undertake, except this time, this once, he couldn't do anything but trust his men.

"Shite," Kay breathed, and Merlin noticed how he reacted, twitching, his body twisting, turning to leap at whatever it was, to rush in to help. Perceval had the same reaction.

And again, Arthur looked at Merlin, meaningfully, raising his brow ever so slightly --

Merlin _got_ it.

He turned to the bar.

"Gin and tonic," he said. The bartender nodded, turning to mix the drink, but it seemed like forever before he slid the glass toward Merlin. Merlin took the drink -- he didn't even _like_ gin that much -- and tossed it back as if he well and fully meant to swallow it all in one go. There was just enough bitter to keep him from choking it back all at once, and he lowered his glass a quarter of the way through, taking a deep breath before he tried for another swallow.

A rough, warm hand grabbed the back of his neck, and Merlin nearly spilled his drink down his shirt.

"Put the glass down, _Mer_ lin," Arthur hissed through grit teeth.

Merlin gulped -- he couldn't help it, because it was as if every ounce of menace, of frustration, that Arthur was feeling right now had vibrated through his body, and it was _terrifying_ to hear -- and lowered the glass slowly. The bartender, having heard the tone of Arthur's voice, shot him a look of sympathy before moving somewhere safer, while still somehow staying within earshot.

"I told you what would happen if you drank tonight, Merlin," Arthur said, wrenching Merlin around violently. Merlin slipped, but Arthur's hand on his arm steadied him. A few nearby people were watching them, tut-tutting in disapproval, but instantly glanced away, feigning ignorance. "You're such a bloody fucking idiot. When are you going to learn to listen to me? Are you trying to deliberately embarrass me?"

Arthur's hand on the back of his neck guided Merlin through the crowd, and unlike earlier, it seemed that everyone was keen to get out of their way while watching the drama unfold through hooded eyes and veiled glances. "Am I going to have to teach you a lesson again?"

"No, no, Arthur. Please. Don't. There wasn't even any alcohol in it. It was just tonic --"

"Don't lie to me, Merlin," Arthur growled, and it was as if everyone couldn't get out of their way fast enough, even the security guards keeping an eye on the corridor leading to the bathrooms. No one followed them.

"Gwaine said the security on the back door was disabled," Kay walked ahead of them, leaving Perceval to cover their rear. They rounded a corner and headed up the stairs to the ground level, Arthur keeping his hand on the back of Merlin's neck, Merlin continuing to resist as much as he could without tripping over his own feet or delaying them. "Out this way."

And just like that, they were outside, on the Rue de Rivoli, hurrying up the street against the traffic. There weren't many cars out this time of the night, only a few that drove past on l'Amiral de Coligny, and it was then that Arthur let go of Merlin's neck, pausing in a streetlight shadow at the Banque Populaire to draw the gun strapped to his ankle in the pretence of tying his shoe.

"This way," Perceval said, taking the lead, running up a narrow side street, turning right onto a road that seemed barely wide enough for a car to pass through -- and that was when they could hear it, the pop-pop-pop of exchanged fire. "Leon has Morgana, but they're pinned down, and they're getting away --"

Arthur took the lead, taking a weaving, circuitous route through the narrow alleys between buildings when there were narrow alleys to take, and Merlin thought for a moment that Arthur had memorized the maps -- _of course he must have_ \-- because they emerged halfway through the alley, skidding to a stop at a flash of a fiery, orange-white light that seared past them --

"Fuck! Magic!" Kay blurted out, falling on his arse, as if they hadn't spent the last few weeks with the Directory getting exposed to and getting used to this very thing, on purpose, so that they wouldn't cower like frightened children when they saw it in action. But that was exactly what they were doing, stunned at the sight, because something exploded on the other end of the road, and there was a crash of shattering glass and crumbling mortar.

There were shouts, barked orders, a rough chaos of noise that was eclipsed by a woman's scream.

Morgana.

"Come on!" Arthur burst into the alley, and Merlin got his first sight of the situation -- Leon and Morgana further up the alley, huddled between a bit of broken brick and mortar from what looked to have been a direct hit on the building, wedged in a deep doorway. Leon was in no position to take a shot.

Lance was across the way, a bit further down, pinned by short bursts of semiautomatic fire from the rugby player's weapon.

Bohrs and Gwaine were fifteen feet behind Lance, offering useless covering fire. Geraint and Galahad were with them, wearing civilian clothing, just as pinned down as the rest.

Perceval and Kay ducked for cover, heading for the other side of the alley. Arthur hauled Merlin right behind him and snarled, "Stay behind me!"

"Tell me someone has a spare weapon!" Merlin said, but no one answered him.

"How many of them?"

"Four guns, three sorcerers," Gwaine said, his voice flat and even. "Can't get to Leon without hitting them. They keep _throwing_ that magic garbage at us --"

"How long have they been at it?"

"Oh, a bloody long time, showing no signs of slowing down; they're not like those limp-wristed Directory hocus-pocus specialists," Gwaine snapped.

"I see the rugby player, but where's the blonde?"

"Gone," Gwaine said. He paused, cringing when another ball of orange light slammed into the building across from them, raining plaster and brick and cement and mortar on top of Kay and Perceval and Bohrs. A metal balcony creaked and listed, hanging from over them with a thread. "Morgana fought her on the way here. Got loose just as we showed up. Leon grabbed her when they started shooting. Blondie got into a car and fucked off --"

Another blast, this one a little short on the aim, hit the same building over Kay and Perceval and Bohrs.

"We're fucking pinned down!" Geraint shouted.

"The police are going to show up soon," Arthur said. "We need to finish this quick. On the next distraction, you disable --"

Merlin wasn't paying attention, because all he could think of was _Morgana_ , and all he could hear was the loud creak of the balcony crumbling, heaving, groaning, seconds from falling on top of the others.

Merlin knew that if he did this, he couldn't leave any witnesses. But he didn't have a choice. It was _Morgana_ \--

 _They'd been after her all along, they hadn't been after Merlin_ \--

The balcony wrenched out of the wall, and Merlin reacted --

"Merlin!" Arthur shouted.

He stepped out from behind the safety of cover, raising his arm in the air, feeling the faint pressure against his magic as he caught the balcony before it could crash down on Kay and Perceval and Bohrs, because there was no way that he would let anything hurt his friends, and he _flung_ it at the other end of the alley, at the enemy.

The balcony burst apart in a terrific crash when one of the orange balls of light collided into it; it skidded halfway down the alley, giving Lance some more cover against the semiautomatic fire.

But not so much for Merlin.

" _Scield!_ "

A shield of glittering light appeared in front of him, bullets striking the surface and bursting like starlight. It moved as Merlin advanced, staying in front of him as long as he held his hand aloft, the bullets flashing and blinding white against the outer surface.

There was a moment, a brief moment, of absolute silence on both sides of the battlefield before Arthur roared, "Fire!"

This _wasn't_ the way that Merlin and Arthur wanted to tell the team about Merlin's magic, but there was no choice now. He could only hope that the team would know to shoot the enemy, and not _him_ \--

Two bullets cracked through the air; the rugby player staggered back, crashing into the wall. One of the men standing in front of a white van, the rear doors open, crumpled to the ground.

 _Gwaine_. Couldn't be anyone else that accurate.

The enemy fired back, the rugby player spewed a magazine's worth of bullets at them, all of it wasted in a loud, staccato clatter on Merlin's shield --

A sorcerer raised his hands, incanting; a second did the same a moment later. The first spell slammed against Merlin's shield, hammering at it, trying to shatter the surface, and it hurt, it _hurt_ , trying to keep it raised, to keep it from crumbling.

So he let it drop.

"Throw it!" the first sorcerer shouted, and the second flung a ball of orange-white light that was twice the size of a football straight at Merlin.

Merlin held out his hands --

_"Merlin! Duck!"_

\-- he ignored Arthur, because he couldn't let this missile pass by him, where it would kill his teammates, his friends, his _lover_ \--

He could feel the heat of it searing the air, and knew instinctively that it would _burn_ like Greek Fire if he let it touch him --

" _Áfléotan!_ "

The ball slowed, floated, skimming the surface of his hands, not quite touching, stretching against Merlin's magic, and he poured all of his strength into mastering it, into changing the ball's direction, twisting and turning and pulling until he could push it back at the sorcerers --

\-- who screamed --

The van exploded in a large, violent blast, the rubber wheels melting from the heat, the metal crunching and distorting from the impact, the shockwave striking everyone within range, knocking them off their feet --

\-- Merlin raised a shield again, this time as broad and as wide as he could manage, to protect _Arthur_ , Morgana and Leon, Lance and Gwaine and Perceval and Kay and Bohrs, Geraint and Galahad --

It strained him, it pushed at the shield, and he braced, feeling the expensive shoes slip on the cobblestones, his magic absorbing the shockwave until it couldn't absorb any more, shattering from the impact --

And Merlin collapsed, falling to his hands and knees, gasping for breath, only distantly aware of the team moving past him to secure the scene, to make certain no one was left alive, because they couldn't be alive, not after that blast. Dazed, Merlin turned over, staggering to his feet, shaking his head to clear the double vision and when he could see straight again, it was to see his teammates, his _friends_ , pointing their weapons at him.

Uncertain and afraid.

There was a long, long pause. The dust settled around them in a sparkle of light. The distant city sounds were muted, as if the world was holding its breath along with Merlin.

Arthur shoved his way through them, approaching Merlin with a mixture of anger and fear in his eyes. Merlin skittered backwards, terrified, but Arthur caught him first.

And threw his arms around Merlin.

"Don't you _dare_ do that to me again," Arthur whispered in his ear, the words burning with emotion and cracking from the weight of them. " _Don't you dare._ "

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Please contact me for permission before writing anything in the Loaded March AU, or see [here](http://loaded-march.livejournal.com/46614.html) for my stance on derivative works.  
> 


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